


In The Shadow of the Dolphin's Wake

by AnneTaylor



Series: Dolphin's Wake [1]
Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Aftercare, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Decisions, Comfort/Angst, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, Fairshaw, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 40,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23305645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnneTaylor/pseuds/AnneTaylor
Summary: Talked into playing the captain on a disastrous mission aboard a ship of pirates, Flynn makes a bad decision and it is spymaster Mathias Shaw who ends up paying the price for it. Trapped between the Irontide Raiders and a sadistic first mate, under threat by the Horde, Flynn and Shaw must find a way to work together instead of at cross-purposes if they hope to make it home alive.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Series: Dolphin's Wake [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1729903
Comments: 126
Kudos: 78





	1. Ill Omens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn Fairwind has been prevailed upon to masquerade as a man-of-wealth turned sea captain. Spymaster Matthias Shaw is lurking under the guise of one of his crew. It's supposed to be a straightforward mission. Flynn knows it won't be that easy; nothing is easy when it comes to Mathias Shaw.
> 
> But not even Flynn had any idea how bad it would get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who isn't already familiar with Flynn Fairwind and Mathias Shaw, I'd like to invite you to read "Ten Lashes" by Sed. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21446182
> 
> This is the story that made me fall in love with Fairwind and Shaw.

Flynn leaned against the rail, feeling the wind rip at his hair and clothing. They were under full sail in a high wind, the Drunken Dolphin planing over the waters like a rock skipped over the surface of the ocean. They had been late getting launched from Bridgeport, courtesy of two missing crew members and trouble with the port authorities. And then there was the damage to the Dolphin itself. It was an old ship, and until it came into Flynn’s hands it had been a pirate vessel. The hull had been damaged, and the mizzenmast broken by a cannon from a merchanter with more firepower than the unfortunate (and now most likely dead by hanging) captain had anticipated. Flynn had paid extra to have the damage repaired quickly, from a purse supplied by Alliance coffers.

The ship was under a shadow of ill omens. Flynn had a bad feeling about this mission. Or maybe he was just imagining it. He wasn’t really suited to the sort of cloak-and-dagger deception that Mathias Shaw always managed to talk him into. Flynn was all for a bit of fun and trickery, but Shaw was just too damned serious about everything. And too willing to throw himself, and Flynn, into dangerous situations. Every time, he promised himself that it would be the last time and then, one day, there was Shaw coming aboard Flynn’s ship, the Middenwake, outlining another hair-raising and, in Flynn’s opinion, hair-brained, mission. Dangling a well-filled purse and expecting Flynn to fall in line. Taking him for granted.

 _Because he can_. Flynn had never been able to turn Shaw away. And he probably never would.

“That new man you took on just before we left port,” said Mad Dog. “Blackbane. He's a problem.”

Of course he was a problem. How could he be anything else? _You're going to regret this, Flynn, my boy_ he had told himself when he'd agreed to let Stormwind’s spymaster aboard a ship he was captaining, in the guise of a common sailor. Usually, if a ship was needed he captained his own, but they had both agreed that sailing the Middenwake into a nest of pirates would have been the height of folly. “Too much of a problem?” he asked his first mate.

Mad Dog scowled. Flynn had just implied that the man was unable to keep discipline. It might have been a mistake, Flynn thought in retrospect. His first mate was a brute. Six-foot-two, a full head of unkempt black hair, arms as thick as smoked hams. Almost every inch of him was covered in tattoos; the man celebrated every event in his life with ink. Every man he killed, every victory, every prize ship taken. “Of course not. The man’s an idiot. Blackbane,” he snorted. “He just needs to be broken in a few places. I was planning on doing some fishing with him today. Three ‘casts’ ought to do the job.”

It was a form of discipline that Mad Dog Bessel had invented. Or, practiced frequently, at least. The unfortunate sailor’s legs were tied together at the end of the long rope and he was dropped over the edge. That was unpleasant; the victim usually ended up with seawater driven all the way up into his sinuses. Not much more than that, as long as said individual had a working pair of lungs and the good sense to hold his breath.

Flynn doubted the spymaster, who, as far as he knew didn't spend a lot of time in the water, would have the lung capacity of most sailors. Bessel would overestimate his capacity of breath. “Three seems excessive for a first offense.”

Mad Dog’s thick brows beetled down over his cruel eyes. “He's not showing me the proper respect. Can't have that. Probably two will do the job, though,” he agreed.

The second time, weights were hung around the sailor’s waist or neck and his hands were bound behind his back. When he hit the water he’d sink right down, no chance to draw breath, as he had earlier when he'd only been skimming across the surface and had full use of his hands.

Often as not, if Mad Dog was particularly pissed at the man, on a second “cast” the sailor came up with lungs full of cold seawater and had to be revived by the ship's surgeon, Diggle. Flynn put a thoughtful look on his face and gave Mad Dog the impression that he was seriously considering letting Shaw be drowned. He wondered if Mad Dog’s punishment was considered to be worse than keelhauling, which was said to be a terrifying experience.

“I suppose it would prove diverting,” Flynn admitted. The crew would certainly enjoy the spectacle. Pirates were a sadistic lot, on the whole.

A look of surprise flitted across his first mate's face. _Damn_. Mad Dog clearly expected Flynn to intervene on Blackbane’s behalf. He wondered if that was Shaw's fault or his own. They had been hoping nobody would draw a connection between the two of them. Flynn, being captain, was obviously going to be expected to interact with anyone the Dolphin encountered, but Shaw needed to remain invisible. Flynn had tried not to watch Shaw, or show any concern over what he was doing, no matter how badly Mad Dog treated him. He had tried not to be seen talking to Shaw or treating him as anything other than a lowly ‘wet dog’, which is how unseasoned sailors were labeled.

It was probably Shaw's fault. The man was hopeless with knots, at least by a sailors’ standards, his hands were too soft to be convincing and for all that he claimed to be able to carry the role, Flynn doubted that Shaw would ever be able to fake the cowed and terrified mien that Mad Dog insisted on in those over whom he exercised power. Shaw was too used to command. Brilliantly self-controlled, and never at a loss. It radiated out from him, and when things went to hell Shaw was the one people turned to. Mad Dog had to sense that, and Flynn could tell that it pissed him to no end.

Mad Dog was a bully and he didn't scruple to flaunt it. Many's the time Flynn had fantasized about simply poisoning the bastard. But at least he wasn't as bad as Harlan Sweete had been and Flynn needed him to keep the rest of the bloodthirsty crew in check.

Truth be told, Flynn couldn't wait to be free of the whole bloody mess. The Drunken Dolphin, a forty year old ship that had seen a lot of wear, had been “won” by Flynn in a drunken card game, unquestionably rigged by SI:7, at the Perky Parrot in Bridgeport. It was currently headed for a rendezvous with Chem Ironwhale, the man who had taken the reins of the Irontide Raiders after Harlan’s death. They were to deliver a package from one of the secret Irontide operatives in Bridgeport to Chem’s representative in Freehold, then sail back to Bridgeport. Easy. Except that it wasn’t. _How the fuck did I let Shaw talk me into this?_ he wondered gloomily.

Money. The money was good. With Shaw, the money was always good and Flynn could never bring himself to turn the spymaster down.

“So. I’ll just go fetch a rope and...”

“No.” Flynn let regret seep into his voice. It wasn’t hard to fake. Shaw could be an annoying bastard and there was a part of Flynn that wouldn't mind seeing the man humbled. At least a little bit.

Not too much, though. There were so many reasons not to let Mad Dog have his way with the head of SI:7 and current leader of the Stormwind Assassin's Guild. “The man's not up to it. You'd break him and then he'd be useless for anything but chumming sharks.” Privately, he doubted that anything could break Shaw, but it would certainly piss him off and Flynn wanted to avoid that.

Mad Dog grunted. “If he's that useless, why not dump him?”

“Oh, I didn't say he was useless. He has his talents. I plan on using them to their fullest capacity.” Flynn licked his lips and let a dreamy smile pull up the corners of his mouth. That should take care of accounting for his interest in the man, better that that having them look too closely into his own background, or Shaw’s.

“Don't know what kind of talents a useless ass-wipe like him could have,” Mad Dog muttered, although he obviously did. Most times, he barely managed to keep his contempt for his new captain concealed. Flynn was pretending to be the son of a wealthy family gone bad, born and raised in Boralus, fled to Bridgeport, where he’d “won” the Dolphin. Soft and self-indulgent. It gave him excuses for all kinds of things that a hardened sea-man would not have done.

Including hiring a crew member just to act as his personal catamite. Shaw wouldn't be happy to know that he’d just been slotted into that role.

Flynn gave himself over to a very pleasant fantasy, with the promise that he would explore it more later in the privacy of his bed, regarding exactly what being Flynn’s catamite might mean for Shaw.

It was a given that Mad Dog would tolerate Flynn as captain only as long as the money kept flowing from his privileged coffers, and then he'd be sent on one final fishing expedition. Flynn was hoping the Irontide mission could be concluded long before things reached a crisis point. “Well, we can't have him being disrespectful. When he's done with his work, send him down to my quarters. Make sure he knows he's to be disciplined.”

“Aye, captain,” Mad Dog said sullenly. Flynn wondered if he had objections to the idea of buggery, or he simply wanted to handle Shaw’s discipline himself. Personally. More likely the latter. Mad Dog loved to have an excuse to discipline one of the crew.

Gods, I hate this ship. It reminded him of those final days aboard the Siren’s Kiss, when Harlan’s influence over the sailors had reached a point that Flynn just couldn’t stomach it any longer. Flynn wanted to be back on the Middenwake. Safe and surrounded by good company, plenty of dockside time, crew that he could respect and trust. It was the good life. Shaw was an idiot to take chances like this. The Irontide’s crews were ruthless and not entirely sane.

The worst of the torment of this mission was just being on the ship all day with Shaw. The man made him positively itch. It was an itch he knew he'd never be given the opportunity to scratch and there were few things worse than having to go about your business on a ship full of pirates trying to hide a boner.

At least on the Middenwake he was among old friends, and they were all good humoredly aware of his little infatuation. His first mate Jandri tended to be endearingly overprotective. She would often get in Shaw's face when the man dropped in on them unexpectedly, giving Flynn a little cushion before he was confronted with whatever scheme the spymaster had brought with him.

Shaw always came alone, though, which Flynn thought a bit odd in view of Jandri’s aggressive dislike. Maybe it was the spymaster’s way of spitting into the face of danger. Not that the crew of the Middenwake was likely to prove all that dangerous to a man of the spymaster’s caliber.

“I'll be in my cabin looking over the accounts if you need me for anything,” Flint told Mad Dog. 

* * *

Flynn had checked and rechecked his figures about a dozen times. His numbers all lined up, his totals were all correct. The fingers that held the pen were trembling slightly and Flynn took a moment to will his racing heart to calmness. Not that any of the recalcitrant members of his body were particularly inclined to obedience right now.

Shaw was not going to thank him for this.

 _He agreed to play the part and he hasn't really been living up to his bargain_ , Flynn argued. And this is the result. Most of his crew was a pack of homicidal, unrestrained savages who had minds capable of holding only three thoughts; sailoring, drinking and whoring. Or buggery, depending on their inclinations.

The only thing that kept them in check was their fear of Mad Dog, and if Shaw was set on challenging that, he was putting them both in danger. Shaw had to know that Flynn couldn’t just sit by and let things go to hell the way they were doing. Mad Dog needed to be diverted. A message needed to be sent.

He heard the creek of the floorboards. Flynn always knew when someone was approaching his door. He wondered if it were just a fortunate coincidence, or if it had been built into the design of the ship. _How would one even do that_?

A brisk double knock. Shaw was not pleased. Flynn could hear the anger transmitted through the man's knuckles. He raised his voice jovially, knowing that it would irritate Shaw even more. “Door’s open. Come on in!”

 _What maggot gets into my brain and makes me want to see him lose his temper?_ Flynn wondered. Jandri says he makes an idiot of me and I'm inclined to agree.

The door opened, and Matthias Shaw, master assassin, head of the Alliance's spy organization, SI:7, stepped into the captain's cabin. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but his presence gave him height, especially in crowded quarters. The jet black hair that he'd been given as part of the disguise cast by one of the Alliance mages still looked startlingly strange on him. He wondered if Shaw felt the same way about Flynn's newly golden locks. _I'm as pretty as Anduin now_ , he had thought when he first had seen himself in the mirror, though, obviously, that wasn't true. King Anduin Wrynn’s good looks owed to more than the color of his hair.

There was a bruise darkening on Shaw’s face and several more on his bare arms. He was wearing loose black trousers and a sleeveless cotton vest. His knees were damp halfway up to his thighs. Probably scrubbing the decks. Again.

Mad Dog gave him all the worst jobs. He always pretended it was because of Shaw's “attitude”, although there wasn’t much to complain about. Shaw kept his head down, didn't mouth off, which put him way up on Flynn, and did what he was told.

But he just couldn't manage to look cowed or fearful, which was all Mad Dog really wanted from his crew.

“I was told to report to the captain's cabin for discipline.” Shaw's lips were pressed thinly together.

Flynn found himself wondering if he could kiss the plumpness back into them. He tore his gaze away and stood up. “My first mate says you have a bad attitude,” he said loudly. He shut the door.

“Fuck that,” Shaw grumbled. “I've done every shit job he's given me and never complained.” His eyes burned into Flynn’s like angry coals. “What the hell were you thinking, doing this?”

“Report confirmed, I suppose. I’m afraid you’re going to have to be disciplined, Blackbane,” Flynn said loudly. He reached up and shook loose the pair of shackles suspended from a chain run through a hook set into the thick ships rib that ran the length of his cabin. “Arms.” His heart was pounding against his rib cage. _You’re going to regret this, Flynn, you know you will_ …

“Like hell.” The anger in Shaw's eyes turned deadly. “Think very carefully about what the consequences will be before you start letting this position go to your head, Fairwind.”

“Now, now. I'm the captain, Shaw. That was part of the bargain that was struck. You agreed to take my orders.”

“Orders that pertain to the running of the ship, yes. Not playing your perverted games, Fairwind. I've heard things about you...”

 _What the hell..? What has he heard? And from who?_ “Any minute now, my first mate is going to find some matter which urgently requires my attention. He's going to come down here to report.” Mad Dog’s predictability was actually one of the traits that Flynn was grateful for. “What he actually wants to find out is what’s going on between us. I don't intend for him to find us engaged in a game of cards. He needs to believe that I can keep discipline.”

“You're the captain. Don't tell me you're afraid of what he thinks.”

“Yes. I am. And you would be too, if you didn't have your head so far up your ass. He's the only thing between us and twenty knives just itching to slit our throats.”

“I hired you because you said you could pull this off...”

“That's exactly what I'm doing. You're the one who can't pull the rod out of your ass long enough to cringe a little. That's all the role requires, Shaw.”

“If I give it to him easy, then the next time he'll want more, and worse, and it will never end. You fucked up my plan, Fairwind. You're the one with your bloody head up your bloody ass.

The floorboards creaked.

“Hands!” hissed Flynn. “He needs to see you being punished.”

With an angry look that promised later retribution, Shaw stood under the manacles and stretched his hands up.


	2. Unfortunate Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn makes a bad choice. And Shaw pays the price.

Flynn snapped the manacles on. Quickly, he yanked Shaw’s shirt out from beneath his breeches and rolled it up, tucking it under at his neck, exposing the man's pale back.

That was another give-away; a seaman’s skin was not pale and smooth. It was tanned and made leathery from exposure to the elements. Flynn couldn’t help but hesitate for a moment, admiring the broadness of Shaw’s muscular shoulders and the way they tapered so sharply into the man’s narrow waist.

He loosened Shaw's rope belt and yanked his trousers down, exposing the man's beautifully curved ass.

 _Damn_. No matter what happened to him later, even if the spymaster had him flown far above the city on griffin back and dropped, and he plummeted to his death, it would have been totally worth it for this single sight. He planned to remember it for the rest of his life.

Flynn grabbed his whip out of his sea-chest just as someone rapped on the door. “Enter!” he commanded briskly.

Mad Dog poked his head in and did a double-take at the sight of Shaw in manacles. Flynn grabbed a piece of bread off his plate, and took a casual bite. As he chewed, he yanked on the far end of the chain, taking some of the slack out of it and raising Shaw up on his toes. “What is it, Bessel?”

“Crow's Nest spotted sails to the east. No colors flying.”

“Are they closing?” It's all in the timing, he thought. Perception is everything. He'll never forgive me for this. _Not that I ever had a chance with him to begin with_. He shook the lash out and laid a stripe across Shaw's back and buttocks.

Shaw screamed. Flynn had deliberately given him no warning or chance to brace himself. Shaw did not lack for control, and was no stranger to pain, but nobody could have taken that stroke unprepared and not reacted.

Mad Dog’s eyes flared hotly. He smiled.

The sound of Shaw’s scream burned across Flynn’s nerves. Seeing him was like molten lava in his gut. _Get it together, Flynn. Look like you don’t care. You can do this_. If Flynn could convince Mad Dog that Shaw had been badly punished, that Flynn was as much of a sadistic bastard as Mad Dog was, he wouldn’t feel the need to do anything worse to Shaw. He took another bite of bread and sat seemingly in thought for a while. “Let me know as soon as colors are spotted or if our tail starts closing.” Flynn shook the lash out again.

Shaw's fists clenched, and the muscles of his back shuddered in anticipation of Flynn's next stroke.

Then Flynn paused, as if in thought. “The crew. Were they all human?”

Mad Dog scowled. “I don't know,” he admitted. He shifted uncomfortably. Obviously, he was enjoying Shaw's discomfort.

“Find out. All human means the Alliance or Kul Tiras is poking their nose in our business and we may have to consider a change of plans. Mixed crew is likely to be Irontides, nothing to worry about.” When Mad Dog made no move to leave, Flynn frowned at him. “Well? Do you have something else to tell me?”

Mad Dog gave one last glance at Shaw, and there was something lustful writhing in his eyes. He licked his lips. “That’s a pussy whip. I could bring you down a set of iron-tipped cats, if you'd like to use a man’s tool for discipline. Maybe give you a few pointers on where to lay them.”

“Thanks. I have my own preferences.” Flynn fixed his eyes on Shaw, as if measuring where to lay the next blow. Then he turned an annoyed look on Mad Dog. “Dismissed!” he snapped.

Sullenly, Mad Dog left the room, slamming the door behind him.

There was a moment of creaking, but then it stopped abruptly. Mad Dog was lurking outside his cabin, Flynn guessed, probably with a hand stuffed down the front of his trousers. Waiting to be entertained.

Shaw tipped his head back slightly. “Making me wait for it, Flynn?” His quiet voice was even and controlled.

Yep, thought Flynn. He's pissed.

Can't really blame him. How would I feel if our positions were reversed? He shivered at the thought, but it didn't frighten him as much as he would have expected.

 _I would trust him_ , Flynn realized. The notion surprised him. _Trust him not to throw me away. Trust him to have a plan_. He went to fetch a different whip, which he'd concealed in the lid of his trunk. It was a short, straight rod of cord-wrapped metal with a large triangle of leather at one end. Made to order in a very specialized shop in the back streets of Boralis. For a very different purpose, but it would do here.

He stepped into position behind Shaw. “Brace yourself,” he told the spymaster quietly. “I'm going to give you twenty. But they won't hurt, I promise.”

The first stroke he laid across Shaw's left buttock. The loud crack rang out; Flynn figured they'd be able to hear it clear up to the deck of the forecastle. Shaw's body twitched, but no sound escaped his lips. The second blow was just as loud, but Shaw didn't react this time. “Didn't feel that one,” he remarked. His voice had a sarcastic note.

“Shut up, Shaw,” Flynn hissed quietly. “That's the idea.” He laid down eighteen more, carefully avoiding the red welt that decorated Shaw's back.

“You really aren't very good at this, Fairwind.” Shaw's voice was condescending. “And you seem to have forgotten who's really in charge here.”

“This wouldn't have been necessary if you had...”

“It wasn't necessary at all. Any of it. But what's done is done. Listen very carefully, Fairwind, because I'm not accustomed to having to repeat my orders. And I don't care how valuable you think your assets are, I'll have them warming the floor of the Stockade for a year, maybe more, if you don't start taking my orders. Now.”

“Fine,” said Flynn. He reached for the key to the manacles, only to be frozen by the spymaster’s next words.

“Take the other whip, the real one, and lay down six more strokes. Be certain to place them where the marks will be visible when I take my shirt off.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf as well as stupid?” Shaw snarled in undertones. “Of the twenty-one strokes which you have supposedly given me, your first mate can't possibly fail to notice that the only one which left a mark was the one he was around to witness.”

“But...” Flynn picked up the whip. It wasn't a cat-o-nine-tails, but he had been whipped with one of these before, more than once, and it wasn't pleasant.

“Just do as I said, Fairwind,” Shaw told him impatiently. “What, you think I haven't taken lashes before? Next time, don't make plans without me. Catching me off-guard is never a good idea.”

Flynn's stomach lurched. He flicked the tail of the whip out and laid a stroke across the spymaster’s back.

Shaw screamed. It was a sound that raised the hairs on Flynn's arms and back. “Shaw,” he whispered urgently, “are you..?”

“Five more,” Shaw commanded through gritted teeth. “And be quick about it. I don't have all day.”

Flynn did as he was told. Five more strokes, all of them laid across shoulder and back. For two of them, the lash curled around and welted Shaw's chest.

“Good thing you don't do this for a living. Sloppy technique, Fairwind.”

“Shut up,” Flynn muttered. It bothered him more than he could articulate, the wrongness of what he was being forced to do. _I don't want to hurt him. Not like this. As plans go, this was not a good one, Flynn_.

Then Shaw screamed again. The sound sent ice into the pit of Flynn's stomach. It was a cry of despair and pure agony, torn from the throat of a man at the end of his endurance. It left Flynn shivering, clutching the whip tightly in his hands. “What the hell, Shaw? What the hell was that?”

“What? You thought I wasn't capable of screaming properly?” Shaw's voice was thick with irony. “I'm the spymaster, Fairwind. Whatever role I play, I play to perfection.”

“But…that scream. I’ve never…”

“I have. I’ve *made* screams like that happen in the course of doing my job. I’ve witnessed and been responsible for horrors you can’t possibly imagine, Fairwind. Do you have any idea what my job requires? Never mind. Just understand that you don’t need to worry about my performance or my welfare.”

“But...Mad Dog...”

“Was completely under control. I was posing as an incompetent sailor, my background similar to yours. Soft, and inexperienced, pretending I was something I was not, a bit arrogant and ripe to be broken. Why do you think I chose that ridiculously pretentious name? I was planning...” He gave Flynn an irritated look. “Get these damn things off me, Fairwind.”

Flynn hurriedly fumbled at the manacles with his key.

Shaw winced slightly as his arms were released. He yanked his trousers up and refastened the belt. “...was planning on letting him ‘break’ me and then I'd be able to fly under the radar for the rest of the voyage. I could snivel and duck when he was around. And he'd see me as no threat whatsoever. That is how this was supposed to happen.” He began to pace. “Damn it, Flynn. You just had to improvise on the plan. You haven't done me any favors.” Shaw raked a hand through his hair, then winced as the action pulled at his welts. He sat down on Flynn's bed.

For just a moment he looked...old. Tired.

Flynn had the beginnings of a serious headache. “Look...I'm sorry. I thought I was...protecting you.”

“By making it clear to the crew of a pirate ship that the only reason I'm here is to take the captain’s cock up my ass? Thanks. Not sure what you thought you were protecting me from.”

What had he been thinking? Flynn wasn't sure anymore. At the time, he’d hoped that if he made it clear to the crew that Shaw belonged to him, they'd leave him alone. The sight of Shaw, face drawn and angry, red whip marks livid on his body...

 _I think I just fucked up_. Flynn felt his face grow hot. _What the hell was I thinking? Why didn't I just talk to him first?_

Because I was trying to impress him. Because I thought I was being clever, more clever than the head of a SI:7. I thought I knew better because I'm Captain Flynn Fairwind and I know fucking everything. “He was going to tie your legs together and drop you in the ocean. I thought this would be preferable. People tend to drown when Mad Dog drops them overboard.”

Shaw stretched carefully out on the bed. “I can hold my breath for three minutes under field conditions. And it's fairly easy to fake drowning. Just spit out a mouthful of seawater and start coughing,” he said conversationally.

“So, you're saying I should have pretended I didn't give a shit what happened to you and just let things run their course.” There was an ugly note in his voice that Flynn just couldn't suppress. _Easier said than done, Shaw. Not that you'll ever know_.

“That's about the size of It.”

“Okay, look, there's no reason we can't do that going forward. Here’s how we’ll play it. Err...the captain had his fling and now he's not interested anymore. You can go back to being a normal incompetent want-to-be seaman and get keelhauled a time or two and make Mad Dog happy...”

“It's not that simple anymore,” Shaw said darkly. “Not sure how this is going to affect the dynamics of the meetup. Might be good. It will give you an excuse to bring me into town for the evening and keep me close. On the other hand, there will be more eyes on me, and magical disguises aren’t always effective among the professionally suspicious. There are enchantments that can see through them.”

“I suppose we should have relied on something less magical, then,” Flynn remarked. He hadn’t been pleased about the disguises, not trusting or liking magic, but Shaw had insisted.

“That just makes it more likely that we get recognized. Hair dye is easy to recognize, and it’s impossible to change your features without magic. Or more expertise with an actor’s kit than you possess, Fairwind.”

“What's going to happen when we get Freehold?” Shaw had been maddeningly fuzzy on the details earlier. As usual, he gave Flynn information pertaining to his part in the action and nothing more.

“Supposedly, you're just going there to drop off a message. Should be simple and straightforward. Afterwards, we’ll be at liberty, I’ll head off to a meeting, and we’ll leave port in the morning. I should be back in before morning, but if I'm not, leave without me.”

 _Zero chance of that happening_. “Who are you meeting?”

“That's not something you need to know. Your job is just to get there in such a way that our meeting doesn't look suspicious.”

“Fine,” said Flynn. He was just a tool to Shaw. Everyone was, really. Normally he didn’t let it bother him, but Flynn was stinging and off-balance and feeling like an utter idiot. He had thought he was saving the day, saving Shaw, but instead… “Sounds like all's well that ends well. How long are you going to be taking up space in my bed?”

Shaw's eyes momentarily showed surprise. Then he gave Flynn a sarcastic shrug. “I thought I'd just spend the night. You owe me a comfortable sleep, at least. Better than a narrow hammock in a stinking hole with a bunch of...” He shrugged. “Nobody will think it odd, all things considered.”

“No. Absolutely not. You said you wanted to change their perceptions of our relationship. That’s hardly going to happen if you spend the night in my cabin.”

“Fairwind... It isn't that simple.”

“Yes. It is.” _I'm not being hysterical_ , Flynn told himself. _I just can't have him in my room all night. And I have nowhere else to sleep. What if I give in to temptation? What if I try to kiss him and he figures out how badly I want him, and instead of kissing me back he just looks at me with that calculating stare of his and thinks ‘how can I use this to my advantage_?’ “Get out, Shaw. I've got a healing potion if you need it for the welts.”

Shaw got stiffly to his feet. “They're there to be on display, Fairwind. What would be the point in healing them? Besides, I'll probably need it more later.”

Was he planning on getting knifed in Freehold? What else did he plan on doing there that he wasn't telling Flynn about?

Shaw stepped directly in front of Flynn. “Are you sure you want to do this, Flynn?” he asked, his voice oddly gentle.

Nausea cramped Flynn's gut, nearly doubling him over. _He knows. Son of a bitch_. “I don't do pity fucks, Shaw. Get out.”

Shaw's shoulders sagged. “Aye, captain.” He walked to the door and paused, his hand resting on the knob. “You know, Fairwind, every time you've made a decision regarding me on this mission, it has been the wrong one. You might think about that.”

He left, closing the door behind him.

Flynn flung himself down on the bed, stony eyed. It hadn't been a bad decision. A bad decision would have been to give into temptation, as Shaw had obviously wanted. He wasn't going to let Shaw use him like that. He worked for Shaw, but on his own terms. He wouldn't be made into a tool.

 _I'd be his tool if he just wanted me_. It was an admission that caused Flynn only pain.


	3. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Flynn sent Shaw away, he couldn't know what the consequences would be.
> 
> Bad.

Flynn lay, open eyed and restless, on his bed. _I sent him away_.

The light slanting down through the portholes faded and the sky grew dark. Normally Flynn was exhausted enough from a day at sea that the creaking roll of the ship put him right to sleep, but tonight, that blissful state kept slipping out of his reach.

Why had things gotten so complicated? It had sounded like such a simple mission when Shaw had outlined it. Sail down. Drop off a package. Sail back. Get paid. That was exactly the kind of lighthearted and easy mission that Flynn preferred. The chance to walk down memory lane and be a free-wheeling pirate again, if only for a few days.

But they weren't even past the ‘sail down’ part of the mission and things were already going sideways. Flynn’s intuition and keenly developed sense of self-preservation told him that the situation was bound to get worse. He tossed and turned and fretted, knowing that obsessing over the problem wasn't helping. _What I need is rum_ , he thought, but he didn’t have enough on him to get properly drunk, and even if he did what would be the point? There was no one to drink with. Besides, getting drunk on a ship full of Irontides would be a very bad idea.

He stared up at the ceiling, counting his breaths and feeling the roll and list of the ship beneath him, imagining the very different ends that the evening might have come to if he hadn’t turned Shaw out of his bed, until sleep finally took him.

* * *

It was a real fucker of a morning. Cold raindrops, some mingled with sleet, pelted the deck. The wind screamed through the sails, causing the sheets and rigging to buck like an unbroken horse. Flynn could see Tucker, the youngest of the sailors, shivering in the Crow's Nest. Alert, though. A bright lad, not yet ruined by rum and bad company.

_I was him, once. So quick and eager to please. I did my job and moved up through the ranks. When I finally made captain, I thought I had the world in the palm of my hand. Then it all went to hell and I had to get out and start over again back in Boralus._

There were three men on the main mast, repairing a snapped stay. Mad Dog was at the wheel. Flynn did a slow go-round of the ship, stopping every now and then to peer into the mist with his spyglass. If there was a ship out there, it was well-concealed.

Is it one of us, keeping an eye on the spymaster in case of trouble? A rival pirate? A silent escort from the Irontides? Could be anything.

If he’d been doing his job properly as captain, he’d have learned the names of all the sailors by now, greeting them by name at least once a day, doling out criticism and praise as necessary. But he didn’t like the way the men looked at him, or each other, for that matter. Shifty eyes, sullen faces. Anything he said just made them more sullen. They showed little respect to him, and if he had trusted Mad Dog to have his back he might have made more of it, but he didn’t and it just wasn’t worth the effort, now, was it? No point. They were a lost cause, these men, and they had never been his to begin with.

By the time he had finished his inspection, there were more sailors bustling back and forth. He spotted Shaw on his knees, scraping something off the deck with some kind of flat bottom tool. He had a pail of water beside him and a sandstone. As he watched, Shaw tossed the scrapings overboard and took a brush out of the bucket. He moved slowly; he was probably in a lot of pain from the lashes Flynn had given him yesterday.

It was his own fault, Flynn argued, but he knew that wasn't true. The fault was Flynn's. Shaw had simply been forced to salvage the situation, paying the cost for Flynn's lack of foresight.

The ship rolled sideways and the bucket started to slide. Shaw made a grab for it and missed, sprawling out full length on the deck. His movements were stiff and clumsy.

Blood stained the back of his trousers.

What the..? The breath was forced out of Flynn's lungs as if someone had kicked him in the gut.

What had happened to Shaw last night?

 _I'm not supposed to notice. I'm supposed to act like I don’t care_. He drifted across the deck and pretended to take an interest in something out in the fog. He lifted his spyglass. “What the fuck happened last night, Shaw?” he hissed.

Shaw had managed to keep his bucket from spilling. Not that it would have mattered; why the hell was Mad Dog having someone scrub the decks in a driving rain?

“Shaw. Talk to me.” The wind blew Flynn's words away but he was certain Shaw had heard him. “Talk to me here or we'll do it in my cabin.”

“What the fuck do you think happened?” Shaw exploded. He huddled on the deck, hands clasped around his bucket and brush. His hands were red with cold but the knuckles that gripped the brush were white. “I'm the captain's discarded fuck-toy. Honestly, Flynn, what did you think was going to happen? Never mind.” Shaw set his brush against the deck and started laboriously sawing it back and forth across the wood. “Go away, Flynn. Don't argue with me. I have things under control.”

It took every ounce of self-control that Flynn could muster for him to tear his eyes away from Shaw’s battered body.

 _I did this to him_. Flynn raised his spyglass and stared blindly out over the choppy sea. _Every time I try to help it just makes it worse for him_. “Are you sure, Shaw? I'll do anything you tell me to. No fucking around. No more bright ideas. I swear it.”

“Just walk away. Things will settle out eventually.” There was a bleakness in Shaw's tone. “We’ll be at Freehold in two days, maybe three.”

He just needs to survive this until then. He’s survived worse, right? Torture, stabbing, imprisonment. There were a lot of stories told about Shaw’s career. An assassin almost from birth, handpicked to lead the secret organization that eventually became SI:7. He had been a legend at Tradewinds even before the Alliance had moved in and Shaw started spending most of his time there, aboard the Wind’s Redemption.

When Flynn had finally met the Alliance’s feared spymaster, he had been determined to show the man he wasn’t afraid of him, and that his reputation didn’t impress Flynn in the slightest. He’d been prepared to dislike the man, to pop the bubble of his self-importance.

Shaw had been nothing like Flynn was expecting. Nothing he was prepared for. His presence filled the room, for Flynn. In those early days, when Shaw was present, Flynn couldn’t concentrate effectively on anything else. It irritated him and alarmed him. Now he had become more accustomed to the effect that the man had on him. But it was still there, like a bur under his saddle, like a song that seemed not quite in sync with the music that was playing. Flynn wanted to straighten it out, somehow, but wasn’t sure how that might be accomplished. It made him crazy.

The spymaster would have been better off hiring someone else for this. Someone who would have been content to merely follow orders. Flynn walked away, feeling the bitterness of his own clever plan weighing him down.

* * *

Sometime in the early morning hours, something woke Flynn from a troubled sleep. Light was just beginning to dapple the pale grey-blue of the low hanging clouds. He sat up, looking around the cabin. Nothing seemed to be moving. The ship's toss was gentle; it wasn't a storm.

The floorboards creaked.

Someone was outside his door. Flynn slipped quietly out of bed, stopping to slide a dagger from its sheath as he made his way to the door.

If it was Mad Dog, Flynn's only chance would be to catch him completely by surprise. He eased the lock carefully, then yanked the door open.

Shaw huddled on his hands and knees, propped against the wall, arms trembling and barely able to support his weight. “I...seem to have over-estimated myself.”

 _Shit_.

“Don't touch me,” Shaw warned. “Just leave the door open.”

“I won't touch you.” Flynn got down on one knee. “But you can touch me, if you like. See...here's my arm. Your choice, Shaw. If you grab me, I can help you stand.”

Shaw’s fingers wrapped around his arm with a grip tight enough to leave bruises.

“Coming up now.” Flynn kept his voice carefully neutral. Anything that tries to reach for him right now is going to seem like a threat. He'd seen the spymaster go into threat mode before, once. It wasn't safe to move too quickly and he needed to keep reminding Shaw of who he was. Flynn staggered to his feet, helping to support Shaw's weight. “Shaw, did you kill them?” he couldn't help but ask. If there was a room full of dead bodies somewhere on the ship, Flynn would need to go clean it up.

“Wanted...to...” Shaw's breath came unevenly, hitching at every movement. “Would have blown the mission. Not professional.”

Trust Shaw to elevate the mission above his own needs. It was characteristic of the man. Once inside the room, Flynn kicked backward, slamming the door shut.

Shaw's pupils contracted to pin points. He struggled for control.

“Shaw. You're safe here.” Flynn made his voice low and gentle. “You're safe with me.”

“You...flatter yourself.” Shaw's tension eased somewhat “If I can't take care of a threat, you're hardly going to be able to handle it.”

“Can I lock the door?”

The spymaster gave a jerky nod. Flynn flipped the bolt down and fastened it.

Shaw jerked almost imperceptibly at the sound. “I'm going to go sit on your bed. That is, if you don't mind,” he said, his voice bleeding sarcasm.

“I'm sorry, Shaw. Gods. I'm so sorry. I didn't know what I was sending you into. I'd never have...”

“For someone who's been doing this as long as you have, Fairwinds, you're remarkably naive.”

Was he? Maybe so. After the extremely unpleasant experience of working with Harlan Sweete, Flynn had been careful about who he shipped out with. The crew of the Middenware weren’t the most experienced sailors, or the sort to come out on top in a brawl, but they worked well together and knew how to carry a tune and there wasn’t a one among them who would have tolerated a rapist on the ship. Flynn waited for Shaw to let go of his arm but although Shaw stared down at his hand with an oddly disturbed look, his fingers didn't release their grip. Flynn guided Shaw to his bed and helped him sit down.

“Do you have any rum?” Shaw slumped on the bed. The lines of his posture betrayed his utter exhaustion, and his eyes looked empty. Bruised.

“It doesn't look as if you'll need anything in order to help you sleep,” Flynn remarked lightly. He rummaged around in his chest until he found the clear vial filled with green tea extract, a potion imported from Pandaria.

“I need something to get the taste out of my mouth,” Shaw said bleakly. He tipped back the potion without looking at it, then choked. “This isn't alcohol,” he complained. Then “oh,” he said softly as he felt the effects begin to take hold. Some of the pain lines smoothed from his brow. “Thanks.”

… _besides, I'll probably need it later_... Shaw had known what was going to happen. Or at least expected it. “Why didn't you tell me this would happen? I'd never have sent you out if I'd known.”

“I don't do pity anything, Fairwind. You tossed me out of your fucking bed. I’m not about to beg you to let me stay.”

 _All right. I totally deserve that_. “Have I been misreading you, Shaw?”

“Sometimes.”

“You know, don't you? How I feel about you. You've known all along.” _And here I thought I was doing such a good job of hiding it_.

“Yes.” Shaw's voice was flat.

Humiliation trickled along Flynn's nerves. _He thinks I'm pathetic. Just a tool to be used_. “Why didn't you take advantage?”

“I did, you fool,” Shaw snapped. “Why do you think it was you I always came to, when I needed someone I could...” His head fell backward against the glass of the porthole. “I did take advantage of you. Because I knew I could trust you. Not to turn me down,” he added belatedly.

“Oh.” Flynn blinked at him. “Yes, I can see how that would appeal.” He sank down on the bed beside the spymaster, trying to decide how much the revelation hurt.

Not terribly. At least Shaw had never pretended to return his affection. He looked over at the other man. Shaw's gaze was intently focused on the far wall. His fingers gripped the bed. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“It's okay,” Flynn told him. “I don't mind.”

Shaw took in a deep breath and let it out, slowly. His back relaxed against the wall.

“Do you find that pathetic, Shaw?” Flynn asked wistfully. “A man who allows himself to be used?”

“Shadow’s teeth, no!” Shaw hissed, turning angry eyes to Flynn. “Don't ever think that.”

“That's okay, then.” Flynn gave him a determinedly cheery smile. “As long as you're still willing to respect me in the morning.”

The corners of Shaw's mouth twitched. “Fairwind, you ass. You'd make a joke about anything.”

“Fairwind would. He's definitely an ass. But I'm captain Lucius Capthorne and I'm a much more serious fellow.”

Small tremors were beginning to travel across Shaw's skin again.

“Lie down, Shaw. Get some sleep. You'll be staying with me from now on, no arguments.”

“None from me.” The spymaster’s voice was slightly slurred. “Sleep with your sword close at hand, Fairwind.”

“I will.”

Shaw stretched out across the bed. Flynn gently unlaced and removed his boots. “Do you need anything, Shaw?”

“Maybe.” Shaw's eyes closed and a note of uncertainty crept into his voice. “Remind me. That someone can touch me without wanting it to hurt. Mind you, I'm not looking for you to...”

“I know,” said Flynn. “I get it. Don't worry. I won't read anything into this.” He placed his hand on Shaw’s shoulder, letting the warmth of it sink in.

“Yes,” Shaw’s head lolled back. “S’nice. Keep touching me.”

Flynn gave in to all the temptation that Shaw's body presented. He ran his fingers across Shaw's rounded pectorals, exploring their curves and down the undulation of the man's ribs. The scent of Shaw’s sweat filled his nostrils, stirring his body into a mild, pleasant state of desire. He combed through Shaw's hair, smoothing it back from his forehead and tucking it behind Shaw’s ears.

With every touch, the tension in Shaw's body seemed to melt away a little more, and eventually the spymaster’s breathing became deep and regular. A quiet snore occasionally escaped from the man's lips.

With a smile, Flynn removed his boots and carefully crawled into bed beside Shaw. He pulled the covers up over both of them and allowed himself to drop off into an uncharacteristically restful sleep.

* * *

When he woke up the next morning, there was a man's arm draped over his rib cage. This, of itself, was not a completely uncommon experience. It was the awareness of whose arm it was that brought novelty, and a certain amount of uncertainty to the experience.

There had been nightmares breaking Shaw’s and Flynn’s sleep apart, at least a dozen that he knew about. Flynn wondered if Shaw would remember any of them. The spymaster hadn’t seemed to have been fully awake, nor aware of Flynn’s hand on him, soothing him back into his restless sleep.

Flynn sat in silence for a time, enjoying the feel of Shaw’s body nestled against his. Then there was a start, a sharp intake of breath that told him the moment was over. The arm was carefully withdrawn and Shaw rolled over onto his back.

Flynn gave him a moment, then inquired “I suppose you’ll be wanting breakfast next?”

“I wouldn't say no,” Shaw remarked after a short pause.

“Good.” Flynn sat up and had a thorough stretch, deliberately keeping his head turned away, hoping Shaw was taking notice. Hard work and a naturally athletic physique had kept his body in shape, certainly it had been admired in the past. Never before by Shaw, though. He slid out of bed. The floorboards were cold and smooth against his bare feet.

There was a tray outside his door. Captain's privilege to have his meals delivered.

Flynn locked the door and returned to Shaw.

“Breakfast in bed?” Shaw murmured. “You're going to spoil me.”

The appreciation in the man's voice tickled along Flynn's nerves and gave rise to another pleasant fantasy, in which he had the chance to thoroughly spoil the spymaster. “The grog’s badly watered,” he warned. “There are probably maggots in the oatmeal, although they were pretty thoroughly cooked so they actually add a bit of flavor. The fish is usually good. It's the bacon that I'd avoid if I were you, unless you’ve got an extremely strong constitution.”

“I've had far worse,” Shaw snorted. “You should see what they eat under decks.”

Oh, right. The captain would be getting the best of what was on the ship.

Shaw took a bite of the oatmeal and chewed thoughtfully. “Actually,” he said, “this tastes exactly like the swill they feed us below decks. Although, I think the maggots are a bit less numerous.”

Flynn silently cursed his first mate. That bastard Mad Dog was behind this. He probably kept the best for his own plate, expecting that Flynn wouldn’t know how things were supposed to work. A pirate ship was a great deal less regimented than a private or military ship, but still, there were rules.

Shaw gulped down some grog. As he bent over to set the mug back down, his back, which had been flush to the wall, was momentarily exposed.

There were four deep dagger cuts stretching diagonal across his ribs, now partially healed from the green tea elixir, forming a crude letter “W” on his back. Two of the cuts had come dangerously close to his spine.

 _Son of a_...

Shaw glanced at him, then looked self-conscious. “That's what decided me, last night. I was pretty sure they weren't going to stop with one letter and I really did not want to know where the “H” was going.”

“How many of them attacked you?”

Shaw shrugged. Don’t remember,” he said evasively. “I didn’t take them seriously to begin with, still trying to concentrate on playing the role of Blackbane, the not-so-piratical. It wasn’t exactly my easiest role to date. By the time I realized my mistake I’d taken a few too many to the head. After that,” he took a bite of fish, “I was face down with four of them sitting on me. Didn’t see their faces. Though I got a fairly good look at other parts.”

 _I'd like to sink this floating shithole to the bottom of the ocean_.

“Don't,” warned Shaw. “Whatever you're thinking, Fairwind. The mission has to come first.”

“For you. Not necessarily for me.” _There will always be another mission. There's only one Mathias Shaw, spymaster_.

“I thought I could trust you to have my back,” Shaw said quietly.

“You can. I do. Your back. Not the mission’s.”

Shaw let out an exasperated sigh.

“If it helps, I promise not to do anything to endanger the mission as long as it doesn't endanger us.”

“Thank you for that, at least.”

Flynn couldn't tell if Shaw was being sarcastic. “How do you want to play the next few days?”

“It shouldn't cause much surprised if I'm absent from my daily duties. The crew will probably assume I'm fish food. Mad Dog will come looking.”

“I'll handle him.”

“The mission, Fairwind.”

“Don't worry, I don't intend to kill him. Not right now, at least.”

“Don’t start anything, Fairwind. The man will gut you like a mackerel.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Don’t be an idiot. Even I would hesitate to take him on,” Shaw admitted mildly. “At least, not without better weaponry and the element of surprise. And a good exit strategy.”

“Oh, a ringing endorsement.” Flynn tossed the blanket off his legs and swing them to the ground. “You really know how to flatter. No wonder you have trouble getting people to put up with your company in a non-official capacity.”

“Fairwind...”

Flynn rolled his eyes. “Don’t be an ass, Shaw. It’s not you I’m angry with. Stay in the cabin. Keep the door locked. I'll make your excuses.” Flynn pulled his shirt off and tossed it to the floor, replacing it with another from his chest. “We’ll be in port in a few days and we can get the hell off this ship. There's got to be another transport that we can take to get back to Bridgeport.”

“Don't burn any bridges, Fairwind. Bad as the Dolphin is, all our other alternatives might be worse. I really don't want to fall into the hands of the Irontides crowd.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Flynn peeled off his breeches, then pulled on a clean pair. He wondered if Shaw was watching as he stripped, and hated himself for wondering. When he looked up it was to find Shaw gazing at him, a look of mild interest in his eyes.

“Watching me, Shaw? Should I be flattered or worried?”

“You're always the most entertaining thing in the room, Fairwind.”

Flynn snorted. Trust Shaw to always keep his options open. “I'll be back to check on you in a few hours. “

"Bring a bucket of sea-water, if you please. I badly need a wash."

"I'll see what I can do."


	4. What Were the Odds?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Flynn and Shaw try to come to terms, Flynn's errand in Freehold looms and he has to leave Shaw behind as he meets with the Irontides sailor. Then he gets distracted, and not in a good way.

Mad Dog was at the prow, standing against the headwind, a brooding expression on his face. He pretended not to notice Flynn's presence.

Two could play that game. Flynn folded his arms and scowled as he watched the sailors go about their tasks. _If I decided to kill them all, how would I go about it?_ he wondered. The first one he simply drowned in his imagination, holding the man's head beneath the water until the bubbles ceased. The next two he keelhauled, both at the same time. Fore and aft. The fourth he imagined hanging from the topmast, his legs kicking and his purple tongue protruding as his lungs convulsed...

"That's a fair savage look on your face, Cap'n," remarked Mad Dog. "Something on your mind?"

"Someone was fucking Blackbane last night. Was it you?" Fairwind hadn’t meant to blurt the question out like that, but what he really wanted to do was shove his dagger deep into Mad Dog's kidney and he was fairly certain that this was the lesser of two bad choices.

"No." Mad Dog chuckled. "But it would have been if I'd known he was available. A very sweet ass on that one."

"He wasn't available."

"Sneaking out on you, was he? Obviously you're not reaming him hard enough."

"He had a lot of cocks in him last night, none of which were asked for. Someone also carved up his back." Flynn was pretty good at reading people, and he was almost certain that this was no surprise to Mad Dog. "Was one of them yours?"

"If you didn't want him shared out you shouldn't have given him to the crew."

"I didn't."

"The hell you didn't." Mad Dog scowled. "Then what the hell was he doing in general crew?"

"He's crew, you obtuse asswipe!" Flynn growled. "Where else would he be?"

Mad Dog stared at him. "You're serious? You daft bastard. You don't just take a member of your crew, discipline him in private with his pants off his arse and then send him back. Most of the crew is ex-Irontide Raiders, and you know what they're like. You always keep your back to the wall around them."

"I'm from Boralis," Flynn reminded him. "We don't treat crew like that."

Mad Dog shook his head. "You're a menace is what you are. Better put him off at Freehold, let him find another ship. He's done on this one."

"I want the men responsible disciplined."

"You're the one most responsible, captain. How many stripes do you want to take? Because I'm willing to give them out. I'll even guarantee that I'll lay hands on everyone who took part in this incident and give them the same number."

For a moment, Flynn was tempted. But then his common sense took over. What would that accomplish? The crew would be pissed off, and it would make him look subordinate to Mad Dog. None of these were good things. "Make sure the crew knows to keep away from him."

"Keep him in your cabin."

"I intend to."

Mad Dog shook his head. "You might want to think about stepping back," he remarked. "I can't guarantee your safety, not when you keep making foolish mistakes. The ship belongs to you, but we could arrange something."

Flynn was tempted to roll his eyes. How stupid did Mad Dog think he was? But since he'd planned on doing exactly that after this mission, he summoned up a suspicious but hopeful look and remarked mildly "I didn't know that was an option. Doesn't the captain have to stay with his ship?" It had been one of the hardest parts of the job; pretending that he was just pretending to be a captain. He'd mixed up his fore with his aft a time or two, called the lines "ropes", referred to the sails as sheets and flubbed his knots.

He'd pretended to "learn" from Mad Dog how to walk the ship and inspect it, how to set course, keep logs and keep track of the crew. Those were all duties he'd been doing on the Middenwake for a year, and before that he had more than a few years on the Siren’s Kiss. But the idea that being the captain's lover degraded a sailor to something on the level with a shanghaied prostitute?

He shouldn't have been surprised. Harlan Sweete had been a piece of shit clean through. That was why he and Flynn had parted ways.

"No reason you should. It could be just a business transaction." Mad Dog eyed him speculatively and Flynn did his best to seem sincere when he said, with obvious relief, "that might be for the best. Let me get this message delivered and you can drop me off at Bridgeport. We can discuss terms on the way.”

* * *

The sun was high in the sky by the time Flynn went back below decks. He knocked on the door to his cabin. “It's the captain,” he said loudly.

The latch was undone and the door swung open. He wasn't surprised to find Shaw waiting with a dagger in each hand. Flynn relocked the door. “I brought you your bucket of water.”

“Splendid,” Shaw responded dryly. He stripped off a shirt which he had obviously requisitioned from Flynn's sea chest.

“I had it warmed.” Flynn put the bucket down, picked up his discarded shirt from the day before, and dampened it in the warm water. He held it out to Shaw.

“What, no offers to wash my back?” Shaw asked. “Who are you and where have you stashed the body of Flynn Fairwind?”

Flynn shook his head and sat on the bed, watching Shaw.

“Fairwind. Why are you staring at me?”

“I'm not. I'm just looking at that spot on the wall and your face keeps getting in the way.”

“You're staring, and it's starting to piss me off.”

“Sorry.” Flynn looked away.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Shaw snapped.

“I'm not.”

“You're obviously feeling sorry for someone, and it sure as hell better not be me.”

“Look,” said Flynn. “You're obviously pissed as hell and looking for an outlet but I'm just not in the mood. Normally, I know, it's what passes for conversation between us and don't get me wrong, I enjoy our little verbal duels immensely, but you're just not getting into the spirit of things...”

“Valen’s balls, Fairwind, don't you ever shut up?”

“See, that was just not up to even your standards, Shaw. You’re entirely on the defensive, no imagination whatsoever. There’s no sport in it. So why don't you just sit down and let me wash your back?”

Shaw glanced at Flynn, his face purposefully smoothed out and unreadable, then handed the damp shirt back to Flynn. He sank down into a sitting position with legs crossed, his arms resting on his thighs, and waited.

The blood was dried, cemented to Shaw's back. Flynn dampened it, then begin carefully cleaning it away. The cuts were not deep, but the placement of them horrified him. Half an inch farther and they'd have probably dragged his unresponsive body out onto the deck and rolled it over the side. Flynn imagined Shaw sinking down into the depths, freezing and paralyzed, lungs filling with water.

 _I'd never have known what happened to him_. Flynn felt sick.

“Lives can be ended any instant,” Shaw remarked. “Don't think too much about it.”

“Am I that obvious?”

“Usually. It's one of the things that makes people trust you, Fairwind. And like you.”

“Do you trust me?”

“I trust your intentions.”

“That was a left-handed compliment if ever I heard one.”

“We work well together, Fairwind. I can't say that about a lot of people. It's just when you catch me off guard that things go badly. Please, Flynn. No more surprises.”

“That's fair.” _He's never called me by my first name before_. Flynn finished with Shaw's back and leaned forward to rinse the shirt. He felt Shaw's fingers tangling with his, massaging the dried blood out and taking it back to wring it out.

Then he passed it to Flynn, who took it with some degree of surprise. An olive branch? Or was the spymaster trying to seduce him by giving Flynn the opportunity to scrub his armpits? It would be just like Shaw to figure out that was an approach that might just work.

Whatever the reason, Flynn wasn't one to refuse a windfall. He leaned forward, running the cotton down Shaw's biceps. The too-familiar smell of Shaw's sweat spiked down into his brain, with predictable results.

He wondered if Shaw would notice. Probably. Shaw noticed everything.

Arms were fairly neutral territory. A good place to start. But things got trickier after that. Flynn scooted over to get better access to Shaw's chest. He risked a glance at Shaw's face and caught the man gazing down at him curiously.

Flynn broke eye contact and dipped the shirt in the bucket. Wringing it out, he asked “why are you doing this?”

“Do I have to have a reason?” There was a hint of humor in the spymaster’s question.

“You never do anything without a reason, Shaw. Always planning, always three steps ahead of all us lesser mortals. It makes me nervous when I can't figure out your angle.”

“Ah.”

Shaw's chest hair was matted with blood and something dark and nasty. Flynn dabbed at it until it grew gummy, then begin to work it gently out.

“I was just enjoying the moment,” Shaw said quietly. “Not thinking ahead. Not planning. You're right, it's not a state I allow myself very often. Too much can go wrong too quickly and if I don't stay on top of everything, things go to hell.”

“Oh. Well,” Flynn snorted and picked at a particularly recalcitrant bit of flattened goo the size of a pea. “I suppose that means we're having a moment.”

“You just have to keep poking until you find a tender spot, don't you Fairwind?” Shaw's fingers closed around the wet shirt. “I can take it from here. Thanks.”

Flynn propped himself up on his knees. “You were being serious.”

Shaw looked away, the tension lines back in his drawn face.

“Sorry. Give me my shirt back. I'll be good.”

“I seriously doubt that.” But Shaw let him take the shirt.

They finished the rest of his bath in comfortable silence. Shaw closed his eyes and let Flynn wash his face, then obligingly tipped his head forward and allowed his hair to be washed.

Flynn was pleased to notice that by the time he was done, Shaw was so relaxed he was half asleep. _What's under those breeches badly needs a wash_ , Flynn thought, but he knew better than to suggest it.

Although, the spymaster had been surprising him all day. His hand dropped casually to Shaw's hip. “Let me help with the rest?” He asked quietly.

“Not...” Shaw swallowed, and visibly calmed himself. “Too much, Fairwind .”

“Okay, then.” Flynn kept his tone casual. “Come on, let's get you back in bed. I'm going to be doing inspections all afternoon. Lock the door and then get some more rest.”

Shaw nodded, all trace of sleepiness lost as the import of Flynn's words sunk in.

As Flynn left, he heard the lock snap into place, as a sound as sharp as the crack of ice on a pond.

* * *

That night, Shaw slept restlessly, but with a reduction in the horrifying night terrors that had disturbed their sleep the previous night. The worst thing about Shaw's nightmares was how silent they were. If it wasn't for the twisting, subdued struggles that left the man wrestling with himself, Flynn wouldn't have known.

Sometimes a grunt would escape Shaw's lips, but mostly it was a tension so great it almost seemed like paralysis. Even in the extremes of his terror, the alliance's spymaster was aware of the need for absolute control.

Small wonder that when that control broke it shattered the man so thoroughly.

Or had it? Shaw seem to have recovered most of his normal, prickly sarcasm. Flynn touched Shaw's arm, hoping it wouldn't trigger a defense reaction.

The man's skin was soaked with sweat. In the moonlight, Flynn could see that his eyes were half open, the lids quivering, whites of his eyes showing. Flynn stroked Shaw's arm, firmly but gently, shoulder to wrist, murmuring “…it's okay, Matthias. You're safe. It's okay.” He would never have dared such liberties if Shaw had been awake, but his soothing touch had the desired effect. Shaw's body relaxed, his tremors ceased and his eyelids closed.

Flynn carefully wiggled himself back under the covers and tried to reclaim his half of the tiny bed. Tomorrow they would hit port in Freehold. If the Dolphin were really his, he'd see about putting in a bigger bed. Flynn thought longingly of his lovely four poster back at the Middenwake, hand built by the ship's carpenter and surgeon, Olbin.

I wonder what Shaw would say if I invited him to join me there? With the odd mood the man had fallen into, he might well accept for now, but Flynn didn't allow reason to breach the line between reality and fantasy.

Once the mission was over, Shaw would don his armor, both physical and emotional, and things would return to the way they were before. If he had ached before with wanting the man, it would be doubly difficult now that he'd had a taste of what he was missing.

However small the taste it had been. Flynn turned over on his side, his back to Shaw, and gave himself over to his fantasies.

* * *

The next day, sometime before sun-high, the ship took a berth in Freehold. Flynn could tell that Shaw was itching to get off the ship, but for obvious reasons having the spymaster with him while delivering what was supposed to be a top secret message, would have been a bad idea.

Freehold was nothing like he remembered from his days as a pirate. Back then, a pirate was a rogue and a swashbuckler. Fun-loving, hard drinking. Clever and prone to taking chances, yes, but with a sense of humor and a sense of honor. Dueling was a pastime that seldom ended in serious injury. They didn’t take themselves or anything else particularly seriously. And they certainly didn’t dabble in politics, as the Irontides were doing now. Trying to sabotage the Proudmores in Kul Tiras.

Now the streets of Freehold swarmed with scum. Grim, belligerent brutes who were quick to take offense and go at it with knives and swords and whatever they could lay their hands on. He saw more than one body rolled into an alley and left for dead. Even quicker to head off to the nearest tavern and drink until they passed out. Flynn had nothing against drinking, of course, but it ought to at least be fun. The Freehold crowd seemed to approach it with a single-minded grimness that didn’t look like even an approximation of fun. _When we get back to Boralus, I’m taking Shaw to Upton and introduce him to Nicolas Moai_. Now there was a man who appreciated fine spirits.

He also had a hundred-year-old whisky that was so smooth it kicked like a mule and tasted like water. Well, not exactly like water. The point was, it was something that could have you dancing on the tables in no time and you never knew what hit you. He wondered if Shaw knew how to dance.

It would be an excellent experiment. He often said that a spymaster had to know everything.

Shaw and his crowd didn’t head to south Boralus very often. It was old school Kul Tireth territory, quietly hostile to the Alliance. Flynn had been raised in Boralus, and although he worked for the Alliance it was well known that he took jobs for the money, not the politics. Southern Boralus still welcomed him and his coin.

As promised, Chem’s man, Igri Halfhand, was waiting for him beside a dry fountain in a dusty courtyard inside the Headless Dwarf Inn. The body of a dwarf, decapitated and preserved, presumably by magical means, stood guard over the courtyard’s entrance, a large double-bladed axe helping to prop him up.

“Local humor?” Flynn asked, looking at the dwarf. His codpiece had been stuffed to make it appear as if he was aroused.

Igri shrugged. “There are more inside, if they interest you. Trophies, I think. Delilah claims she had them preserved exactly as they were at the moment of death. I think it’s wishful thinking on her part.”

“Err…why?”

“She’s a goblin. Got a thing for dwarves. They don’t fancy goblins, though.”

It was a macabre place. Flynn had no intention of exploring further. He pulled the cloth wrapped package out of his shirt and handed it to Chem. “I’d like a quiet place to stay over tonight. Just a meal and a clean bed.” All the places which he remembered were gone, or changed beyond recognition. “Can you recommend something?”

Igri laughed. “I’d recommend you don’t stay in the city too long,” he advised. “I don’t think it would suit you.”

* * *

As Flynn was dodging through a particularly ragged and mean spirited looking part of town, working his way back toward the docks, he noticed a man hurrying out of a door. Normally he wouldn't have looked too closely, this being an area frequented by Irontides, but there was something that seemed familiar about the man. He was of slight build, and had been fair skinned at one time, though now he was as sea-weathered as any other sailor. It was the hair that Flynn remembered, though. A spray of blonde hair, bleached by the sun til it was almost white. Wendel, that was his name. One of his old crew from the Siren’s Kiss, the last ship he had captained just before parting ways with Harlan.

Another man burst out into the street, a large, angry-looking brute with Irontides tattoos and a missing ear. He spotted Wendel and made for him with league-eating strides.

Flynn changed course and headed for Wendel, just as the larger sailor shoved him into an alley, drawing his sword.

“…I don't give a shit whose fault it was, you're going to replace it or I'll shove my cutlass up between your cheeks and twist...” By the time Flynn arrived, the larger sailor had Wendel backed into a corner. Wendel had his own sword out and there was a look of desperation on his face.

“Hey! Lay off my shipmate,” Flynn called, drawing his own sword and advancing into the alley.

“Yeah? Or what?” the man snarled, putting his back to the wall and trying to keep both men in view.

“Or I’ll shove this up your ass.”

The man charged him. Not expecting such a decisive action and caught slightly off guard, Flynn parried desperately. The Freeholder looked like a nasty piece of work, inked and heavily muscled, his cutlass longer than Flynn’s arm. Flynn was faster and, he fancied, a better swordsman, but barely enough to hold his own against the strength and viciousness of his attacker. He was being beaten back and then suddenly he was dealt a blow so powerful that it nearly made him drop his blade, and left his arm numbed. The Freeholder grinned and raised his blade for the killing blow.


	5. Goblins At Liberty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn runs into an old friend who shows him about town. Wendel's taste apparently runs to goblins these days.

“Hey! You!” A shout from behind the man distracted him. Wendel stood, wild eyed and waving his blade about directly behind the man. “Leave my friend alone or I’ll…I’ll shove this…up your ass.”

 _Oh, very original, Wendel_ , Flynn though. But Flynn and Wendel had the man flanked and that put him at a considerable disadvantage. “I’m going to back down the alley, and you’re going to follow me,” he told the Freeholder. Flynn tried to put a self-confident, slightly bored flavor into his voice. _How would Shaw have handled this_? “We’ll call it a…misunderstanding and leave it at that.”

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll take four inches of steel between your ribs, fore and aft.” He hoped Wendel was ready to do his part; he certainly didn’t look capable of stabbing anyone right now. Rather rabbit-ish, truth be told.

“Fine.” The man spat on the ground. “This isn’t the last you’ve heard of me, you little snot,” he snarled at Wendell. But once he was clear of the alley, he hurried off to lose himself in the street as soon as he reached the opening of the alley.

“Flynn! Flynn Fairwind!” Wendel stared at him in delight. Then his forehead creased. “You aren’t back with the Irontides, are you? Because I…”

“No. I’ve my own vessel. The Drunken Dolphin. You?”

“Shipping out with the Flying Indigo. Independent merchant vessel. Gobin owned, so they trade with anyone. But they’re not bad, for all that. Food’s good.” He grinned. “Captain Flynn Fairwind of the Drunken Dolphin. I like the sound of that.”

Flynn cleared his throat. “Keep your voice down. I’m going by Lucias Capthorne, for now.”

“Right. Sorry. Lucias. Can I buy you a drink? Then you can buy the rest, you are the captain, after all. And we can talk about old times and be glad we’ve put them behind us, eh?”

“Mugs in the air to that,” Flynn agreed. “This isn’t my town any more. You?”

“Hell, yes. We dock here a dozen times a year. I know all the best swamps.”

“Lead the way, then.”

* * *

The bar that Wendel took Flynn to was patronized mostly by goblins. There were goblins drinking. Dancing on the tables and hanging from the rafters. Slapping each other and shouting and singing. The din could be heard from many blocks away.

Wendel managed to grab a table tucked away in the back. They sat close together and were forced to shout at times to be heard over the racket.

“Goblins?” Flynn asked. “I'd have thought you'd prefer someplace quieter.” Wendel had always been of rather a scholarly bent. It was one of the things that had made his life under Sweete a misery.

“Hell, yes. The little buggers may be noisy but at least they know how to enjoy themselves.” Wendel flicked two fingers and a goblin woman was almost immediately at their table. She slid two mugs onto the table, gave Wendel a wink and shimmied off, her blue hair spraying out from her head like a painted dandelion.

“You like goblins, then?” Flynn remembered that Wendel had been terrified of the nonhumans on board the Siren's Kiss.

“Have you ever been drinking with orcs? Grim bastards,” Wendell remarked. “And Tauren? They'll drink ten times as much and still put you under the table. Then, half the time they end up crying into their beer and it's awkward because you don't know if you're supposed to pretend you don't notice, or cry with them. I don't speak Tauren, so I have no idea what they're crying over. Dwarves always end up wanting to fight. Trolls just creep me out, the way they watch you and play with their jewelry and mutter to themselves. Gnomes...well, they just creep me out on general principle. Weird little machine men.”

“What about humans?”

“Most of them are Irontides.” Wendell took a couple of swallows from his beer. “I stay as far away from those bastards as I can. That’s why I didn’t stab that bastard when he gave me his back. He’s first mate on the Black Banshee. If I had so much as scratched him they would have been out hunting the streets for me.” He shuddered.

“I had wondered. You might have been a bit bookish, back in the old days, but I remember that you did have a neat hand with a blade.”

Flynn took a swallow of his beer. It was as watered-down as he had expected; you didn't get the goods till they saw the color of your coinage. Still, it wasn’t too bad. And the atmosphere wasn’t bad either, once you got used to the noise level and learned to stop flinching at every crash or leap. He watched the goblins drinking and flirting and wreaking havoc. Come to think of it, there were a number of bars in Boralus that would have benefited from the presence of goblins. “Are any of these your shipmates?”

“Close to a dozen. We all try to stay together while on shore leave. Goblins are tough, but small. They know their best defense is in numbers." He smiled fondly at the goblins. "My shipmates take care of me. Goblins are pretty clannish. You mess with one of us and you get mobbed. As long as money is not involved. Money always precedes any other consideration with goblins.”

Flynn watched a drunken goblin attempt to leap from one rafter to another and end up landing face-first on a table. The goblin tumbled off the table, got back up and staggered off with a silly grin on his face. No beer was spilled. “They're pretty wild. I'd have expected more spillage and breakage, though.” There was remarkably little property damage being done.

“What, and have to pay for it?” Wendell chuckled. “A goblin would be horrified at the thought.”

Flynn smiled. “I'm glad you landed somewhere good, Wendell. I...worried about you after I left.”

“I worried about me, too,” Wendel remarked thoughtfully. “You were the reason I got out, you know. It was odd. It had never even occurred to me that I had the option. Two days after you jumped, we put into Freehold. I went asking around. The goblins needed a “human liaison” for a job, so I was hired on a probationary basis. Once they found out I spoke seven languages and knew my way around both Boralus and Booty Bay they decided to keep me on.”

Flynn noticed that his mug was empty. He wondered how long he’d been sitting in the bar with Wendel. Not even a little drunk yet, he thought mournfully. Waste of a good bar experience. He wasn't here to get drunk, though. “Hey... I'm going to be shipping out in the morning but I was hoping you could recommend a place to spend the night. A safe place.”

Wendell snorted. “You'd be safer on your ship. Safe doesn't come cheap in Freehold.”

“I can pay.” Shaw had given him no shortage of funds and Flynn wasn't about to chance getting shanghaied by the Irontide crew-catchers.

“There is a place that I can recommend. It'll be hundreds a night, but they guarantee your safety. They deliver it, too. As far as I've heard anyway. The Brightwind. I've got a token; they get their clientele by word of mouth. Nobody accepted off the street. Also, no plus-ones.” Wendel fished around in a pocket and brought out a copper token embossed with a golden sun bisected by wavy lines.

“There will be two of us.”

Wendel handed him a second token. “There you go. Instant plus one. Just look for the giant clock-tower north of the docks. Two blocks east of that and one block north.”

“Are you getting a commission for this?” Flynn asked.

“Sure,” Wendel grinned at him. “What self respecting goblin-in-training wouldn’t? But I'm also guaranteeing that you aren’t assassins or vandals, so don't blow anything up or kill anyone, okay?”

“If anything gets blown up or killed it won't be by us,” Flynn promised. “Hey...wish I could spend more time but I need to get back to my ship.” He wasn't sure what time Shaw needed to meet his contact. “If your ship ever docks in Boralus, look me up at the harbormaster’s office. Or my ship, the Middenwake. Find us at the Tradewinds Market harbor.”

Wendell saluted him. “I'll cover your beer and the seating fee. What I make on the Brightwind commission will more than cover it,” he winked.

Flynn dodged his way out of the bar and headed for the docks.

* * *

The sun was setting by the time Flynn made it back to the ship. His feet hurt and his arm still ached from his fight with the Freeholder. The brilliant bloody hue of the sky stained the Drunken Dolphin red. It would be a clear day tomorrow, if the sailors ditty held true. They could get the hell away from this dangerous, warped place and back to the familiar and normal.

Tides, I miss Boralus.

There were several sailors above deck, one in the nest and two at the prow. Flynn barely recognized them. _I’m shit as a captain on this ship_ , he thought. But if he hadn’t wanted to get to know the sailors before, he wanted to do so even less now. Let Mad Dog deal with them. He hurried down the staircase and took a double turn to the right.

He gave a couple of taps on the door. “Blackbane. It's Captain Lucius.” For a moment, there was only silence and alarm begin to grow in Flynn's mind. Shaw would never have opened the door for anyone but him. If they'd taken him, they'd have had to break the door and there was no sign of that. Unless they had a key. But that was impossible. The locks had been refitted when he took possession of the ship and he kept the only key on his person at all times.

They might have picked the lock, though.

Flynn tugged the chain up from his neck, keys clinking together, and found the one which would unlock his cabin. It turned easily in the lock. He twisted the knob and pushed but the deadbolt was still shut.

Why the hell wasn't Shaw opening the door?


	6. Nine Bells

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn and Shaw realize that the Dolphin may not be safe for Shaw any more, but the demands of the mission must take precedence. At least, that's Shaw's intent. Flynn has no choice but to tag after the spymaster and do his best to protect him. Whether Shaw wants his help or not.

_What if he's hurt? What if he can't open the door? How the hell can I get inside_? Panic tightened Flynn's chest. The bolt had seemed like such a good idea when he had it installed.

There was a scraping sound, the bolt being dragged open, and the door swung open. Flynn stepped inside and immediately slid sideways, away from the door.

Shaw slammed the door shut. “Glad to see you're being a bit more cautious these days. Where the **fuck** were you?!” he snarled. His hair was clumpy, as if he'd been running his hands through it and yanking. “You should have been back hours ago.”

Flynn's tin plate was no longer on the table. Instead, it lay in a corner of the room, one side slightly flattened. Flynn was pretty sure he'd find a matching mark on one of the walls of his cabin. “Did something happen?” he asked cautiously. It was completely uncharacteristic of Shaw to lose control so obviously.

“Yes. You had a simple task to accomplish, one which should have taken you a couple of hours at the most and you were gone all day.”

That was hardly a fair assessment. He hadn’t left until after lunch. Still, he hadn't considered the fact that Shaw was trapped in his cabin like a cornered animal until he returned. “I'm sorry. I ran into an old friend and lost track of time.”

Shaw's head dropped. He stared stonily at the floor until the agitation on his face smoothed away.

Flynn wondered what it cost the man every time he put himself away like that, behind the mask of self possessed satire that was his trademark expression. How many layers of fear and pain hid behind those frosty brown eyes?

“Did you at least manage to find lodging for the night? Or did whatever social activities you were engaged in with your old friend drive all such thoughts from your mind?” Shaw inquired dryly, a biting tone to his words.

 _He thinks I was getting laid_.

That was ridiculous. Why would Shaw care what kind of leisure time activities Flynn was engaging in? _He's pissed because I forgot about him and left him to worry while I was off sightseeing._ “I did. The Brightwind Inn. I have it on fairly good authority that it is both secure and reasonably vermin free. Though not cheap.” He watched Shaw carefully as he continued. “I’m thinking one room should be sufficient. Considering the fact that we’re pretending to be...”

“I know what roles we are playing, Fairwind. Yes. One room. Maybe I'll get lucky and there will be a comfortable chair for me to sleep on. Unless I’m expected to endure being rolled on and groped for another night.”

Flynn tried to keep from showing that Shaw's jab had hurt. _He's angry at me. He has the right to be. Let him get it out of his system_. “I’ll have you know that my rolling and groping are highly sought after in certain circles,” he remarked airily. “You obviously just don’t have the refinement of taste to appreciate them. In fact…”

“Shut it, Fairwind.” There was a tense edge to Shaw’s remark. “If you insist on babbling like a lunatic, do it as we’re heading into town.”

“Right.” _Did something more happen, or is this just typical sleep deprived Shaw_? “I'll grab my kit and a change of clothes and we can go.”

“Speaking of going...we’ll need to make a trip to the head first. Assuming I can make it there in time.” Shaw's expression was tight.

“There's a chamber pot under the bed.” Flynn frowned. Shaw had used it in the past.

“No. Not anymore.”

“What happened to it?”

“How the hell should I know? I didn't take it.”

Someone had come into his cabin and stolen his chamber pot? Why would anyone do that?

The thought occurred to him that a missing chamber pot might have forced Shaw to leave the cabin while Flynn was out.

 _Mad Dog_. “Did Mad Dog try to get in while I was gone?”

“I'm not in the mood to tell you all about my day, Fairwind. My bladder is bursting. Can we just get the hell out of here?”

“He did, didn't he? And when were you going to mention this?”

“Do NOT nursemaid me,” Shaw snapped. He paced restlessly back and forth and seemed barely aware of his surroundings.

“Do you remember when we discussed how we weren't going to be keeping each other in the dark? No blind-siding?”

“No. I recall discussing the fact that you need to keep me informed.”

“If things are happening on the ship, I need to know about them, Shaw. Don't let Mad Dog blind-side me. I need to know what he is likely to do. Or try to do.”

Shaw muttered something that sounded like an obscenity. “Yes. He came knocking. Tried to talk his way in. Obviously, he didn't succeed. End of story. I need to get out of this cabin, Fairwind. Now.”

“Right. Okay.” Flynn tucked his kit beneath his left arm, made sure his sword hilt was handy and looked over at Shaw, who had both daggers openly displayed. Flynn wondered if he had his others hidden, or he'd lost them to the crew. “Let's go.”

* * *

From the outside, the Brightwind inn didn't look promising. The fence surrounding it was a battered construction of wood and twisted black iron. Dead plants hung on the arch over the gate. There were a number of thoroughly disreputable characters lurking outside, scarred and scowling. Two of them, a one-eyed tauren with an eye patch and a whip-thin human wearing dirty shreds of shirt and trousers, blocked Flynn's path when he tried to open the courtyard gate.

Flint flicked back the collar of his shirt to show them Wendel’s tokens, hanging from his neck chain. The human reached out to grab hold of the chain, yanking Flynn close enough to smell the sour, stale alcohol on his breath. He examined the tokens thoroughly, with dirty, crooked fingers. Then he dropped them and stepped back, gesturing Flynn inside. The tauren gave Shaw a hard stare, his hand dropping to the haft of a huge, spike studded club.

“Let him through,” said the first man. “He’s cleared for two.”

“Color me impressed,” Shaw murmured as they stepped through the heavy, black iron gate into a sunlit courtyard filled with the heady scent of Lovers Tears and Starflower. There was a pool at its center, with a bridge running over. Round white stones provided a pathway through the courtyard. “Quite a setup.”

There were four beautiful, delicate looking human women in the corners of the courtyard. One was strumming a lute, the other three seemed to be napping, wrapped up in colorful cloaks that pulled down over their faces. A female goblin was playing some sort of game skipping stones on a board with a dwarf, beneath an ornate stained-glass window.

Flynn could feel a half dozen sets of eyes on him as he passed.

Through a large set of double doors, paned in thick glass, was a reception desk. Behind it stood a broad-shouldered man with a variety of axes and odd weaponry on the wall behind him. They made an impressive framework and had obviously been arranged for maximum visual impact.

“Do you have a reservation?” The man's voice was slightly bored but Flynn noticed that his eyes were anything but, taking in every detail that he and Shaw presented. He glanced up at the ceiling behind plan for a long moment, to where Flynn remembered having seen an angled mirror.

Flynn showed him the tokens. The man held his hand out, and Flynn detached them and handed them over.

“One room or two?”

Flynn didn’t glance at Shaw. “One.”

The man examined the tokens thoroughly, turning them over, angling them against the light, and running his fingers along the edges before he was satisfied. “Room forty-two.” He laid two keys down on the desk. “Three hundred gold for the night, plus a deposit of five hundred. If you lose a key, there's a charge. If you want extra guards on your door or inside, there's a charge. If you want an escort into the city there's a charge. If you are expecting magical trouble or assassins, we have countermeasures but you need to mention the possibility before it becomes a problem. If you want room service, there's a charge.”

“We’ll want our clothing cleaned.”

“I'll send someone by. They'll knock, then slide a token that looks like this...” The man held up an ornately painted panel. “...under the door. If they don't have the item, they aren't our staff and you open the door at your own risk. Clear?”

“Clear,” murmured Flynn. “Still impressed?” he asked Shaw as they headed off to look for their room.

“Whatever they end up charging,” said Shaw, “it's probably worth it. Unless this is all for show and they're here to shake their patrons down.”

“Wendell says he's never heard any complaints. Not in the five years he's been here.”

“Means nothing,” Shaw muttered.

The man was a pessimist by nature, Flynn thought. Probably one of the things that made him good at his job. Expecting bad things would make you more prone to looking for them. He wondered if Shaw had always been that way, or if growing up as an assassin had shaped him into a man who saw the world as a threat and expected only bad things to come into his life.

What had Shaw been like as a boy? Had he ever raced crabs, or whatever the Stormwind equivalent was, with the other boys? Or had his childhood days been spent learning how to poison people, or knife them, or avoid being knifed or poisoned? Flynn had learned about knife fighting early on, when he’d been tapped by the gangs, but even though there was occasional violence in his life, he had always found time for a bit of fun. Sneaking about behind the booths at Tradewinds Market, trying to nip off with a trinket or three. Sometimes he’d be caught, and there were always consequences, but as his mentor Toby always said, a switch in time saves a stretched neck. Consequences made you more determined not to get caught next time.

If we were back in Boralus, I’d pester at Shaw until he let me take him to the market. I’d drag him off to Marvin, for a new shirt. Something open at the neck, with lacing that goes all the way down the front. His clothing lacks imagination and style.

Not something he would ever have had the chance to acquire for himself. The taste for it, that is. Flynn didn’t doubt the spymaster would clean up nicely if the role required it. But given no directives to the contrary, Shaw dressed for practicality. And he had no sense of fun.

Still…there was nobody Flynn would rather have at his back. For so many reasons.

* * *

They found their room, tucked away at the end of three branching halls. Many of the doors that they passed had one or more men or women standing guard outside them; Flynn was pleasantly surprised to see that theirs was no exception. A short woman with close-cropped, dark hair stood outside their door, dressed in iron reinforced leather armor and bristling with weaponry. She eyed them with professional thoroughness as Flynn unlocked the door.

"Your name?" inquired Flynn.

"Jace."

"Thank you, Jace." He stepped inside.

It was a room to exceed his wildest expectations, at least the lowered expectations that this disastrous mission had left him with. A very large, canopied, four-poster bed dominated the wall to the right of the door. _Plenty of room to roll about on that, more’s the pity_. Flynn didn’t think there was any rolling in the cards for him tonight. Shaw had been careful to keep his distance from Flynn on the way over, and his expression was rarely less than severe.

The fireplace already crackled with welcoming warmth, a hanging kettle on a hook at its mouth. Through the door beside the fireplace, Flynn could see the edge of a large wooden tub.

"Nice," Shaw remarked. He half-sat, half-collapsed into a chair, not quite concealing the wince of pain that the careless motion caused him.

Flynn pretended not to have noticed and went to inspect the bed. It smelled clean. The sheets were crisp and blindingly white. There was not a flea or bedbug to be found, not even between the mattress and the bottom sheet. The green and gold coverlet smelled vaguely exotic.

"I'm going to take a nap. Wake me in an hour," Shaw instructed.

"Don't be an ass, Shaw. Take the bed. At least for your nap," Flynn continued over Shaw's automatic protest.

"I'll sleep too deeply. I need to be at the Nine Finger Inn by ten bells tonight."

At last. Something concrete had slipped out regarding Shaw's plans. "I'll wake you, Shaw. At nine."

Shaw dragged himself out of the chair. The hollows beneath his eyes were a bruised looking purple.

His nightmares must be sapping the quality of his sleep. Flynn wondered if his efforts had been helping or hindering Shaw's sleep, but he was afraid to ask. Shaw had never mentioned them, and Flynn was fairly certain the man had no idea how many times a night Flynn had soothed him out of a night terror.

Flynn waited until Shaw had collapsed onto the bed, and his breathing had become regular, before going to the door. He opened it. "Jace?"

"Yes?" She gave him a look of professional politeness.

"Can you give me directions to the Nine Fingers?"

Jace hesitated for a moment. "Not the best choice for a night out, if you want my advice."

"Thank you for your advice, but I’m scheduled to meet a friend there."

Jace grunted. "Turn left when you get outside the courtyard. When you see a shop with about a hundred bottles in the window, turn right. At the town square with the cannon in the middle, take the first street that goes left. Count down…eight, maybe nine buildings. Look for the foundry, should be right after that."

"Thanks." Flynn stepped back inside and shut the door. He was feeling restless; what he really wanted to do was for Shaw to get his business concluded so they could go home. He thought about doing a little reconnaissance, but he didn't want Shaw to wake up and find Flynn gone.

There was a strangled grunt from behind him. Shaw was having another nightmare. Flynn carefully eased himself onto the bed, wondering if there would be anyone to watch over Shaw once he was no longer sharing a room with Flynn. He stroked the other man's arm, murmuring soothing words until Shaw relaxed and quieted.

He was tempted to lie down on the bed beside Shaw, but he had promised to awaken him in time. Flynn was so keyed up he didn’t think he’d have difficulty staying awake, but he had promised Shaw and that was something he didn’t want to take chances with. Carefully, he rolled off the bed and went to seat himself in a chair. It was a stylish piece of furniture; expensive embroidered fabric stretched across a squared wooden frame. Not very comfortable, which was good. Flynn settled himself in and waited for the bells to toll.

* * *

"Shaw. Shaw, wake up. Nine bells and all's well," Flynn called from beyond arm's distance from the spymaster. Shaw had been known to wake up flailing. But he was almost eerily controlled; his eyes snapped open and his gaze found Flynn's without even a moment of disorientation.

 _We need to get back to Boralus. Keeping up this degree of control is going to snap him in two. Eventually_.

Shaw sat up and pulled his boots on. "Try to get as much sleep as you can. I don't think either of us will rest easily on the way back to Bridgeport."

"Fuck that, Shaw. I'm coming with you."

"Your presence is neither needed nor appreciated."

"You know what? I don't really care. We can both go together, or separately. Because, as you have pointed out, it's when we each go our separate ways that things seem to go wrong. Besides, what happens if you meet one of the crew of the Dolphin?"

"Then I slit his throat and leave him in an alley," Shaw remarked with a casual manner that should have seemed like a joke but Flynn knew was not. "Very well, then. Stay or come along. It's all the same to me."

Was it? Flynn fancied that Shaw seemed just a touch relieved at the thought of not going alone, but it might just have been wishful thinking on his part. He wondered what the hell he was about to wander into. _Doesn’t matter. He’s not going out there without me_. Jandri would have given Flynn her most strongly disapproving look, if she’d been there. In the past, he’d been concerned over the spymaster’s safety on a mission, but nothing like this…this obsessive protective streak that had emerged. The thought of Shaw wandering unprotected made Flynn crazy, no matter that he knew Shaw was far better at taking care of himself than Flynn would ever be.

It was the not knowing that he couldn’t bear. Not knowing what was being done to him, and whether he would be coming back. _Wish I’d been able to leave him locked in my cabin and done this thing myself._ Flynn gave a quiet snort, watching Shaw do a quick weapons check. _It’s official. I’m an obsessed idiot_. He smiled at Shaw with sad fondness. He’d kick my ass if he knew.

Flynn closed his eyes as a sudden wave of longing flowed through him. _I want something more than this. With him. But it’s never going to happen, is it_? Not with Mathias Shaw, chief spymaster and head of assassins, confidant of the king, a man who regularly stood shoulder to shoulder with the most powerful people in the world. He **mattered**. To almost everyone.

 _Let it go, Flynn. Take what you can for as long as he gives it_.

“Ready to go?” Shaw asked. He was looking at Flynn, a questioning look on his face.

“Ready.” He gave Shaw what he hoped looked like a jaunty and carefree grin.

“Because if you’re having second thoughts…”

“No. Of course not. Why ever would you think that?”

“You were standing there with your eyes closed, looking…not happy.”

“Just…a private moment. Nothing to do with you.”

“Hmm. All right.” Shaw pushed past him.

Flynn’s arm had a faint after-tingle, where their arms had brushed together. It was the first time Shaw had touched him all day.

 _Obsessed. You’re obsessed, Flynn_ , he thought darkly. _This isn’t going to end well for you_.


	7. Window Into Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night out on the town in a nest of pirates, and things are just getting worse and worse. Flynn isn't sure what the spymaster expected to find in Freehold, but he's pretty sure this wasn't it. Things turn ugly, and Flynn doesn't think Shaw is going to be in any shape to deal with the situation.

The door guard, Jace, gave them a nod as they exited.

“Do you need to know how long we’ll be gone?” Flynn asked with a forced lightness.

She shook her head. “I’ll be guarding your door if you are in residence or not. Is there anyone but you two authorized to enter in your absence?”

“No.”

"Will you be wanting an escort?" she asked.

Flynn was tempted. There were so many possible pitfalls to traveling in a town full of pirates and criminals of various sorts, having a native guide who kept people safe for a living would have made him feel much safer.

Shaw gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head and Flynn regretfully answered "No. Thank you."

The Nine Finger Inn turned out to be about what one might expect. A crudely hand-painted sign swung over the door. The sign showed two hands, one of which was missing a thumb and the other was making a rude gesture. The place reeked of stale alcohol and billowed with smoke. Flynn's eyes began to water from the first moment that he stepped through the splintered door frame.

Most of the patrons were human. A few dwarves, a small table full of gnomes. From their garb and speech Flynn guessed that they were all active aboard one of the ships currently berthed. There was a particular look to a sailor on leave. They had little time on their liberty, and were determined to make the most of it. Flynn couldn’t help comparing it with the goblin bar he’d been at with Wendel earlier. This place was far less noisy and chaotic, but there had been a certain winsome charm to the goblins’ celebratory style, and a distinct lack of threat that this place lacked.

There weren't any tables available, so Flynn and Shaw lounged against the bar, hemmed in by many other bodies in various states of inebriation. Flynn bought the drinks, using the money that Shaw had given him at the start of the voyage, just in case anyone was watching.

They waited. The evening stretched out. Every so often Flynn would glance at Shaw, to see if he wanted to change their plans but Shaw just shrugged and pretended to be getting drunk. He really was very skilled at palming his drinks, Flynn noticed. _If I hadn't been specifically looking for it, I'd never have noticed_. He was a brilliant actor as well, having acquired all the subtle tells of a drunk man doing a remarkable job of pretending to be sober.

Attention to detail, that was Shaw.

Pleasant fantasies teased Flynn’s thoughts as he took the leisure to relax and simply drink in the sight of Shaw. In his mind’s eye, it wasn’t the dark hair or slightly altered features of Shaw’s disguise that he saw, it was the image of the man himself, burned permanently into Flynn’s memory. Red hair, glinting in the sun. That elegantly curved mustache. There was no harm in looking, after all. Just playing a role. He had the right to look, while they were pretending to be lovers. _I’d straddle his body, pinning him with my knees and kiss his skin and feed him sips of rum until he was so drunk his defenses would all be down and I could see inside him, down into the pain and the needs that he never shows to anyone…_

A tall man pushed his way in between Shaw and Flynn. He was heavily bundled up in a coat and several layers of ill matching and noxious clothing; the fumes coming off him made Flynn's head reel. He wore a battered tricorn pulled low over his ears and a moth-eaten shawl was wrapped around his neck. Flynn gave way, trying not to gag. He heard the man mutter something, then he gestured at the barkeep and tossed a coin down. A glass of rum was set down before him and the man belted it down, gestured for a refill, tossed that down as well, and left.

After a few minutes, Shaw drifted away from the bar and headed for the door.

Flynn caught up with him as he made his way carefully down the steps. "Your contact?" he murmured.

Shaw grunted, stumbling on a rock and nearly falling. His act was so realistic Flynn reflexively reached out to steady the man, pulling him close against Flynn’s body as if to support his balance. He kept hold of the back of Shaw’s trousers for a while, enjoying the contact even in such a small way. _Just playing the role. Getting my drunk friend home safely_. He grinned at Shaw, who ignored him until they squeezed into a narrow alley between two brick-and-stucco buildings and then Shaw abandoned his drunken personae for something more capable, increasing his pace.

With a small twinge of regret, Flynn adjusted, and released Shaw. They emerged out of the other side of the alley, moving swiftly.

Farther down the street, their target turned left into another alley.

Shaw and Flynn followed, down the alley, up another street, around a corner...Flynn kept a mental map of the route they were taking and knew that Shaw was doing the same.

Finally, their guide disappeared into the doorway of a tall building, four stories high, faced with dirty, chipped brick which looked to be crumbling at an alarming rate. Many of the bricks were missing and the mortar was loose as far up as Flynn could see. Uneasily, he entered the narrow, dark doorway. He fancied he could hear the structure creaking and groaning all about him.

Their guide's footsteps echoed in the stairway, which stank of mildew and urine. Shaw and Flynn began to climb. They came out on the top floor. It was not a reassuring place; the walls were dirty and cracked and peeling. Chunks of plaster had either fallen or been knocked off. The foundation wood was visible in places. It had the look of the undead, with the bones of the building exposed beneath the structure's wounded exterior.

All of the doors were shut except one. Shaw drew his daggers noiselessly and Flynn eased his sword out of its scabbard.

The interior of the room smelled like it was in no better repair than the rest of the building. Flynn waited, all of his senses alert, for a footfall or movement that would betray the position of Shaw's supposed informant.

There was a rustle and the flare of a match. The face of the man at the bar was revealed. Broad features mostly hidden behind the man’s silvering beard and sideburns, heavy eyebrows that met and extended a bit down the man’s nose, eyes so dark they were almost black. A bullseye lantern flickered and was quickly shielded.

"We will be watching the building across the street," the man said. His voice was deep and gravely.

“I was told that there was something I needed to see here. Personally.”

"Yes. You will understand when you see it."

"Who sent you?" Shaw demanded. "What faction do you represent?"

"My people are friends to Stormwind. That's all you need to know. What you see will speak for itself."

"Would you mind ditching the coat?" Flynn asked. "Good disguise, by the way, but if I have to stay in the same room with it much longer I may end up vomiting."

The man snorted. "You get used to it after a while. Him I know, but who are you?"

"Captain Lucias Capthorne of the Drunken Dolphin, at your service. I'm providing transportation for our friend, here."

"Of course you are," the man snorted. "I only brought two peepers. He gets one. I was planning on using the second one myself."

"Give it to the captain," Shaw commanded. "I'll want another witness, if this is as important as you say it is." He sheathed his daggers with a slight hesitation and glanced at Flynn.

The man growled.

Of course. Worgen, thought Flynn. The growl was a giveaway. They all sounded like that when their hackles were up, even in their human forms.

"Fine."

The man was suddenly looming over him and Flynn had to catch himself, to keep from shrinking back.

Shaw’s hand dropped to the handle of his dagger as if it was an instinctive gesture. He frowned, looking down, as if he wasn't quite sure why he'd done that. He folded his arms deliberately, watching the worgen.

Flynn felt something thrust into his hands. He explored it; an oddly shortened spyglass. He took his place on the other side of the window from the spymaster, who glanced at him once, a slightly troubled look in his eyes.

The window was covered with strategically shredded curtain material that managed to conceal both of them from view. Flynn pressed the end of the spyglass through one of the curtain's rents. "Where are we looking?"

"Third floor window. To the left of the gargoyle without a head."

"There's a curtain over the window."

"Gap at the top. You ought to be able to see most of the room. I picked this window for its angle."

There were lanterns and a couple of mage-stones illuminating the room. In addition to the gap at the top, the curtains were only partly closed. There were two humans in the room that they could see. Eventually, they moved aside, revealing another person, also human. He was battered and bloodied, and tied to a chair. Flynn heard a quick, sharp intake of breath from Shaw.

The room’s inhabitants shifted about, obviously keyed up about something. There were also two goblins, one of whom was puttering about with a table upon which were laid a dozen metal implements whose purpose Flynn recognized immediately. He felt tension rise up like vomit in his throat.

“What’s the plan?” hissed Shaw. "How do we get him out?"

"We don't. I'm sorry. There are two dozen heavily armed men in that building, most of them guards with the express duty of making sure that nobody unauthorized gets in. Or out. The best that I could do was make sure that you were able to witness them questioning him so you could do damage control for any secrets that he gives them. I assume you can read lips?"

Shaw swore a battery of oaths in at least five languages that Flynn recognized, and several more that he didn’t. "Give me a crossbow."

"Shoot one of them and we're all dead. They'll follow the angle of flight back to this room."

The man tied to the chair must be someone Shaw knew personally. One of his SI:7, most likely.

The door to the room opened and two more people entered. One was an elegant looking female blood elf in colorful robes, and the other was a pallid man with a quiver of arrows slug over his back. He turned his head slightly, and Flynn could see his eyes glowing red-amber, his face the color of chalk.

“Blightcaller!” hissed Shaw.

The undead paused and looked to the blood elf. He seemed to be waiting for something.

“I knew it! Lying fuckers. So much for cooperating with them to take out Azshara. Genn was right not to trust them. The Horde is in bed with the Raiders, even though they swore they weren’t. For all their talk about honor, they’re just a bunch of lying SCUM!” Shaw dropped the spyglass from the window, and Flynn could see his fist clench in the faint light from the mostly shuttered lantern.

The elf spoke to Blightcaller, who turned and approached the table of instruments. There was no expression on his face, which Flynn found…uncharacteristic. The undead did not lack emotions; they were as capable of pleasure and gloating and all the darker aspects of the emotional spectrum as any other species. Flynn wondered if Sylvanus Windrunner was in the building as well. The two Forsaken usually came as a pair.

What came next was horrifying. Flynn couldn’t bear to watch the undead torturer at work. Shaw forced himself to watch, his expression as brittle as glass. Moisture gathered in his eyes and he dashed it away angrily as he pretended to shift the view of his spyglass. He glared at Flynn. “If you want to make yourself useful, get me a crossbow!” he snapped.

Flynn turned and headed for the door. The worgen moved to block his path, half crouched. Flynn drew his sword and the worgen did the same. “Shaw!” the man snapped. “You’re going to lose your transportation if you don’t call him to heel.”

Flynn thrust, angling to disable and not kill.

The worgen easily blocked his thrust. They exchanged a few more blows, with the worgen entirely on the defensive. His technique wasn’t exceptional but his strength and reach far exceeded Flynn’s. “Last warning,” he growled.

“Fl…Captain. Stop.” Shaw’s voice was hoarse. “I shouldn’t have…”

“The two of us can take him.” Rage flared up in Flynn’s heart. Shaw’s agent was being tortured to death and all the worgen was thinking about was his own skin. “Run the cowardly bastard through and let’s get out of here. Somebody’s got to have a crossbow in this town. Buy it or take it. You can make the shot. I’ve seen you strike your target from worse angles…”

“He’s right, curse him. I saw at least three two-man patrols go past in the last half hour, coming from that building. We’re surrounded by enemies. We have a duty to…make it back. If I had been given more time to prepare, I could have had an exit strategy. Don’t think I’ll forget this, Rastlin, you bastard. You knew this was coming. You should have had…”

“I knew the Horde was up to something in the building. I didn’t know what. I just do as I’m told.”

“Well who did know? Who contacted me?”

“I don’t know.”

The man was lying. He was crap at lying, another worgen trait.

“Shaw. Aren’t you supposed to be watching, to see what information they get out of him?” the worgen growled.

“They won’t get anything. He’ll die before he breaks.” Shaw’s voice was tight with anguish. “He’s one of our best.”

Flynn abandoned the door and went back to the window. If Shaw could bear it, so could he. _No one should have to go through this alone_. He raised his glass to the window.

It was beyond horrifying to watch. The man tied to the chair screamed and writhed as Nathanos Blightcaller calmly and unemotionally reduced him to little better than a lump of bleeding meat. It was all Flynn could do to not vomit. How much worse would it be if this was a man who he knew? A friend?

Eventually, the man’s movements ceased. One of the humans checked for a pulse and evidently found nothing. They left the room.

Shaw watched the dead man for several long minutes, his face rigid and heartbreaking in its very stillness. It was as if he was afraid that any movement might shatter his control. Or maybe he just didn’t want to abandon his agent’s body to his torturers, and watching him was the only thing he could do.

Movement on the street drew Flynn’s attention. The door to the other building opened, and the blood elf exited, with Nathanos Blightcaller trailing silently in her wake. They made their way slowly down a half-circle of stone steps.

There was something wrong with this picture. “Shaw…did anything seem…off…to you?”

“Off!?” The elevated bite in Shaw’s voice told Flynn the man was barely hanging onto the shreds of his self control. “About that undead piece of shit monster torturing one of my men to death? What could possibly be off about that?”

Shaw was not in a mood to listen to anything Flynn had to say right now, and Flynn didn't have time to wait him out. “I’m…going to head back to the inn. Are you coming?”

There was no answer. Flynn hadn’t expected one. He gave the worgen a contemptuous look as he pushed past him and out the door.

There was something going on here, and Flynn was determined to ferret out what it was.


	8. Blightcaller

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blightcaller has killed one of Shaw's agents, and Shaw is too furious to listen to anything Flynn has to say. But something is not as it seems, Flynn is sure of it. He's going to find out what's going on if it kills him. Though, hopefully not.

Flynn descended the staircase in long, arcing leaps. _Yeah, Fairwind, you still have it. Just nip on out, follow them back to their lair_ … He miscalculated his leap and landed at ground level, feeling his ankle turn. Flynn let himself relax and tumble to the ground, better a few bruises than a sprained ankle. He hauled himself back up to his feet, testing his ankle gingerly. A little pain, but no injury, though he was probably going to be feeling it in the morning. He could almost see Shaw’s disapproving look, glowering at him from the darkness. _Damn. I just can’t leave you behind, can I_ , he thought wryly.

Flynn peered out of the door just in time to see Blightcaller and the elf round a corner. There wasn’t anyone else in the street, other than a couple of drunken sailors and three goblin women, who certainly might have been a patrol of Horde spies, but, judging from their lack of obvious weaponry, probably weren’t.

_If Shaw were here, he’d tell me not to assume anything. And not to do anything stupid._

_Too late, Shaw._

He stepped out into the street and ducked down an alley at a run, hoping to close the distance and intersect their path. Speed made him more conspicuous, but if he lost Blightcaller his chances of figuring out what the hell was going on pretty much vanished. He couldn’t articulate why it was so important, but it had to do with Shaw. The spymaster always prided himself on making rational decisions, not distorted by emotion or sentiment. _He’s not capable of that right now. He’ll need information, once he’s able to calm down. I can get that for him._

Luck was with Flynn, he was able to keep his targets in sight as he slipped down the alleys and noisy streets. The drunken brawlers that seemed to fill every tavern and many of the streets provided the perfect cover. It helped that the two Horde didn’t seem to be in a hurry. Blightcaller walked like a man in a trance, looking straight ahead, showing no interest in his surroundings. Was it possible that the man wasn’t really Blightcaller at all? That Shaw had been tricked?

Eventually they came to a squat, rectangular building that looked to Flynn rather like a large crypt. Surrounded by a tall, wicked looking black fence tipped with spikes, the building had a set of stairs that descended down out of sight. Flynn drew closer, keeping to the shadows, and waited. Long minutes passed. The city bells chimed midnight. Eventually, the elf re-appeared. She locked the gate and headed down the street.

Flynn waited until he was certain she was out of sight, then approached the gate. _Good thing I’m always prepared the do a little breaking and entering_. He pulled a pick out of one of his cloak’s pockets and inserted it into the lock.

Suddenly he found himself on the street on his ass, pain spiking up from his left hip. He swayed, nearly blacking out from the pain of the impact of his head against the cobblestones. _Magic lock. Trapped. Damn._ He didn’t have any countermeasures against magic. So much for being prepared. He pulled himself to his feet and limped around the fence which enclosed the crypt. Carefully he reached out a hand, feeling something spark against his fingers before they even came into contact with the fence.

 _Damn. More magic_. Flynn dug his toe into the ground but it was too solid. He’d never be able to burrow underneath. Not without a lot more time and better tools.

There must be a way…Flynn looked up. There was a large tree whose branches reached out, touching the spiked top of the fence. He wouldn’t be able to use the branches to cross; they were too small to bear his weight, but the larger branch from which they grew…he might be able to use it to vault over the fence.

Might being the operative word. If he’d been contemplating such an act twenty years ago, he’d have had no doubts about his success, but sea spray and old age had stiffened his joints. Not to mention the fact that his ankle ached and possibly was beginning to swell, and now his hip hurt.

 _If I don’t manage to clear it, if I come down on top of that fence_ …

He wondered if Shaw would search for him, and what he would think if he found Flynn impaled on top of the fence. He’d probably have me buried with “What an idiot” chiseled into my tombstone, Flynn thought wryly.

 _Well, I’ll just have to make sure I make it across safely_ , he thought. Flynn shimmied up the trunk of the giant tree, wheezing with every thrust of his legs. _You’re getting too old for this, you salty old dog_. Finally, he found himself balanced on the thick branch, overlooking the top of the fence. It looked a lot taller from up here than it had from the ground.

 _I could take a run along the branch and leap_. That would be certain to get him over the fence, but he risked slipping as he ran. Alternately, he could edge his way out along the branch until it began to sway and then use it as a springboard. I’m better at diving than I am at running. That decided, he single-footed his way carefully until the tree branch was swaying beneath him like the pitch on a deck during a storm. _Just like diving off a gangplank on a restless sea_ , he told himself. Piece of cake, mate.

Or not.

 _This is going to hurt. A lot_. He flexed his legs, setting up a sway in the branch. At the apex of its swing, he launched himself, arcing over the fence. One of his boots hit it coming down and he saw a blue flash and a crackle of pain ran into his toe. Then he impacted against the ground and everything went black.

* * *

The world swam back into view. Flynn gasped, his lungs aching and starved for air. Stabbing pain shot through his neck when he tried to move and for a moment panic seized him. _I’ve broken my neck_. But he still had sensation everywhere; pain, lots of it. There was hardly a body part that didn’t hurt. He managed to sit up, looking around, trying to gauge how much time he had been unconscious. It was still dark, thank the gods for that. He struggled to his feet, limping on both of them now.

His sword lay on the ground, on the other side of the fence. He couldn’t remember when he had gotten separated from it. Still have my daggers, though. He pulled one of them from his boot and made his painful way to the steps that descended into the crypt.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he became aware of a strange, hollow sound. Like the keen of the wind though a canyon. But he couldn’t feel a breeze. Flynn shivered. With each step, the noise grew louder and the air colder. At the bottom of the steps he could choose to turn left or right; he could see staircases going down in either direction. The sound seemed to be a little stronger to the left, so he chose that direction.

Down a flight of stairs, turn to the left, more stairs, another turn to the left and another flight of stairs down. He found himself in a room glowing faintly from magelight sconces set into the wall at five-foot intervals for the entire length of the room. There were arcane symbols etched into the stone, the lines of them flared up at his approach. Red and gold, the colors of blood elf magic.

The color of Nathanos Blightcaller’s eyes. It was Blightcaller making the noise that he had heard. The undead was bound with glowing lines inside a five foot wide circle that flickered with sullen red flame. His face was no longer impassive; now agony etched itself across his pale features. The magical force that bound him marked his skin with blackened lines, clearly visible on his pale skin. The Forsaken was naked, the clothing and armor which he had worn earlier lying in a discarded pile in a corner of the room.

I was right. Blightcaller isn’t running this show. It was the blood elf. The blood elves had never gotten on with the Forsaken, and they had a particular hatred for Nathanos Blightcaller, who had been the only human to attain high rank in their organization, despite their opposition. Nobody liked the Forsaken, really, not even in the Horde. From what Flynn had heard they were barely tolerated.

It suddenly came to Flynn; _this whole thing was a setup_. Somebody wanted Shaw to see Blightcaller torturing his man, and to draw the conclusions that he obviously had. To assume that the Horde was behind it.

Somebody wanted the Alliance-Horde conflict to flare up again. Who was in on it? Blood elves and worgen? Certainly one blood elf and one worgen. But he would be able to find out more if he could release Blightcaller.

Is that really a wise choice? What he’d heard about Blightcaller was mostly bad. He was a sadist and a casual murderer, and completely devoted to the current war chief of the Horde. But Flynn hoped this would be a case of enemy-of-my-enemy, and that Blightcaller would feel some sense of obligation to whoever released him from the spells that held him captive.

Now all Flynn had to do was figure out how to break the magic without breaking himself.

He skirted the edge of the room, examining the floor symbols from all angles, wishing he knew more about magic. All the shapes glittered only faintly, except for the one imprisoning Blightcaller.

From bits and pieces that he’d picked up from casual discussion, and time spent with Shaw, he knew that mages incised spells into the ground, preferably stone, though they could be carved into wood floors. It made the spells easier to cast, and longer lasting.

He fetched Nathanos’ clothing and used the belt to check one of the faintly glowing incisions in the stone. The metal buckle clattered against the stone and nothing seemed to happen. Flynn used his own dagger, still nothing. Then he touched it, seeing the ghost of Shaw doing a face-palm in his head. There was a gentle warmth emanating from the symbols but it didn’t react in any way to him. He stuck his tongue out mentally at Shaw. _Tides, I wish he was here_. Taking dangerous chances wasn’t even half the fun without the spymaster to annoy. His finger followed the smooth incision chiseled into the stone. Nothing happened to him, other than the tips of his fingers tingling in a rather pleasant way.

Somehow, he doubted Blightcaller’s prison would be that benign.

The buckle on Blightcaller’s belt was a large, heavy square of metal. Maybe he could use it to chip the stone, marring the etching. From all he’d heard, that was the way to break a ground spell. Flynn took hold of the edge of the belt, careful to keep his hands as far down from the metal as he could without sacrificing his grip, and approached.

Blightcaller was on his knees, back arching, muscles rigid. His head turned slowly to face Flynn, his eyes burning. He looked at the belt that Flynn held in his hand and gave a small shake of his head. “Use…sword…” he hissed through rigidly tense lips. “Wrap…the…hilt.”

Brilliant idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Well, after all, Nathanos was the tactical genius responsible for Alliance victories for a decade, Flynn thought cheerfully. I shouldn’t be expected to compete with that. He used Blightcaller’s cape to wrap the hilt of his sword, and took a strong, two handed grip on the weapon. Lifting it up above his head, he brought it down on the edge of the circle that surrounded Blightcaller.

Sparks flew from beneath the edge of the sword as it impacted against the stone. A flash of energy sizzled over the surface of the blade, flaring as it hit the cloak, which burst into flame. Flynn dropped it with a yelp.

Blightcaller hissed with pain as the circle flared up. His back bent so severely that Flynn’s ached in sympathy, the Forsaken’s long, elegant fingers clawing at his own thighs. “Again!” he hissed from between clenched teeth.

Flynn retrieved the sword and re-wrapped the hilt. It had a large, blackened hole burned into it and was still smoking, the stink of it curling up into Flynn’s nostrils. Flynn rolled his tongue about, working up a good wad of spit, and drowned the smolder.

He hefted the blade, and this time committed entirely to the blow. This is going to hurt. The blade slammed into the stone. A chip of stone skidded across the floor and a small cut neatly bisected the circle’s edge. Red-gold energies raced up the blade and he dropped the weapon quickly as the energies stung his hands. The red flames marking the circle died. Blightcaller collapsed to the floor.

Flynn shook his fingers out, hoping the tingling numbness was only temporary. What do I do now? he wondered. He fetched the Forsaken’s clothing, armor and weapons and carried them across the room, laying them in a neat pile beside the circle.

Nathanos Blightcaller rose slowly to his feet. His head twisted back and forth, as a human might do when trying to clear his head. His high forehead wrinkled as he stared at Flynn. The glow in his deep-set eyes flickered and brightened. “Who…are you?” he asked.

Flynn considered the question. He’d heard that Blightcaller was nearly impossible to lie to, and he didn’t want to waste any goodwill he might have bought with the man on something trivial. “Captain Flynn Fairwind, at your service.” He sketched a bow.

“Why did you help me?”

“Enemy of my enemy,” Flynn told him. “You killed…one of my people.” It was close enough to the truth, the man had been human, after all, and he worked for Shaw. “But I didn’t think you were doing so willingly. I followed you and the blood elf. What’s going on? Who is involved, and what were they trying to do?”

Blightcaller considered the questions, his gaze piercing Flynn with its intensity. Finally, he gave a slight nod. He bent to retrieve his clothing and began to dress. “The blood elf managed to catch me in her spell by treachery. She was draining my will. A variant of the Lich King’s spell, though not as potent. All night she would drain me, so that I would be vulnerable to her spells of control when she came for me the next day. Eventually, I would have become a mindless slave to her commands. I owe you for saving me from that, human. What would you have of me?”

Flynn’s mind went almost completely blank. “What I really want is a ride back to Boralus for me and…my companion,” he snorted. “But I don’t think that would be a good idea. He saw you kill his friend and he’s…he’s very angry. Best that the two of you don’t meet.”

“I remember the killing,” Blightcaller remarked. “I remember watching it, watching my hands strip the flesh from the Alliance spy, watching them perform their functions. But it was not my choice.” He regarded Flynn, his glowing eyes rendering his expression difficult to read. “You are part of the Alliance, then, and not a Raider?”

“That’s right,” Flynn confirmed, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake in revealing his allegiance to Blightcaller. “If you want to repay me, then make sure the Alliance and the Horde know what happened. Tell the Alliance that the Horde wasn’t behind this plot, and that you aren’t allied with the Irontide Raiders. Err…you aren’t, are you?” Flynn inquired.

“The Irontides are allied with the group of blood elves which planned on enslaving me. Their plan was to send me back to Orgrimmar, my mind engraved with orders to attack my lady, arranging the events in such a way that the Alliance was blamed. No. They are not our allies. And they will never be, I promise you that,” Blightcaller declared grimly. “In fact, I suspect there will be little left of them once Sylvanus finds out their intentions.”

“Well, all right. I’m the current captain of the Drunken Dolphin, by the way. We’ll be heading out tomorrow, weather permitting. Um…do you…need a ride? Somewhere?” Flynn really hoped the man would refuse. Blightcaller and Shaw on a ship together. Talk about complications. Although, he permitted himself a moment of pleasant reflection, thinking about siccing Blightcaller on Mad Dog. High entertainment, indeed. Shaw wouldn’t see it that way, of course. Probably turn out to be a bad plan, when the dust had settled. Still, he felt obliged to offer. It was vital that Blightcaller got away from here and back to neutral ground.

“No. Thank you. I have my own ship.” Blightcaller inclined his head to Flynn. “I will inform the Horde of what has happened, and I will see a formal message sent to the Alliance as well. But I would have done so in any case. I am still in your debt. As long as my lady gives me leave, when you call your debt in, I will repay.”

Nathanos Blightcaller owed him a favor. That was a thought both terrifying and…more terrifying.

 _What the hell am I going to tell Shaw about this? He isn’t going to want to hear that Blightcaller is one of the victims of this incident_. Not now, when the death of Shaw’s friend was so fresh. But maybe later. Once time had blunted some of the sharp edges. “Well…I’ll be going now.” Then he remembered. He was trapped inside the magical gate. “Err…after you, of course.”

“I shall wait here for my former captor’s return.” Blightcaller folded his arms, and a smile of anticipation curved his thin lips.

“Could you, maybe, open the gate for me?”

“Not without giving her warning of my escape.”

Flynn sighed. “I suppose I’ll just…wait here with you, then. How long do you think it will take?”

“Not long. It is almost morning.”

Shaw would be pissed. He needed Flynn to play captain and get them both away. What would Mad Dog do, if Flynn didn’t show up by the time the tide turned? Would he wait an extra day, or would he simply take command and sail off?

Flynn hoped Shaw wouldn’t return to the ship and end up trapped there. The thought made him frantic. He began to pace.

Time passed. Finally, Flynn heard footsteps out in the passageways of the crypt. Blightcaller placed himself casually beside the opening that led into the room, off to one side so his presence would not be detected immediately. Flynn pressed himself into the corner on the other side of the entrance.. The blood elf strode in “Good morning, Blightc…” she said, her tone cheerfully mocking, then froze, realizing that her captive was nowhere in sight.

Blightcaller struck, as silent as a snake. She was lifted up, choking. Her hands made frantic arcane gestures but whatever spell she had been trying to cast was aborted as Blightcaller crushed her throat. She collapsed limply in his grasp.

“Her spells will persist for as long as she lives, but their power should be reduced.” Blightcaller strode outside and took hold of the gate. Sparks danced up his arm, throwing his pale face into bright relief. The smell of scorched cloth and flesh drifted to Flynn’s nostrils. The gate swung open. “I have neutralized her spells,” Blightcaller told Flynn with a sardonic smile. “You can leave now.”

“Uhh…thanks.” Flynn hurried out, thankful that he would not have to witness whatever Blightcaller had planned for his enemy.

Right now, he just wanted to get back to Shaw and go home.

* * *

Sunlight was slanting down through the wide picture windows when Flynn entered their room at the Brightwind. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find. Not Shaw sleeping, sprawled and almost peaceful on the bed. The man’s eyes snapped open as Flynn entered.

Flynn braced himself for Shaw’s ire.

“You’d have done better to skip the carousing and get a good night’s sleep,” Shaw remarked. His eyes avoided Flynn’s, and there was something in his voice that told Flynn Shaw was disappointed in him. And maybe something more.

If Flynn had been out drinking and fucking, he’d have defended himself vigorously. But the words died on his tongue, and something in his gut began to ache. Did Shaw seriously think that he could have spent the night entertaining himself, leaving Shaw to grieve alone? Apparently so, and it hurt a little that Shaw didn’t demand to know what he had been doing. That he didn’t assume Flynn had a good reason for his behavior. _He always thinks the worst of me_.

If Flynn was to be honest with himself, the spymaster had good reason to question Flynn’s judgement. He’d gotten Shaw beaten and raped, and forced him to lock himself in Flynn’s cabin all day. But if he defended himself, he’d have to explain to the spymaster what he had been doing all night, and Flynn was quite sure that would be a bad idea. He nodded meekly. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be much better once we can get back home and I can set some things in motion,” Shaw said briskly. His momentary lapse was once more hidden beneath his customary spymaster manner. “His majesty needs to know about the Horde’s latest treachery. And I will make it my personal mission to make certain Blightcaller pays for what he’s done.”

Flynn sat on the bed, his hip close, but not quite touching Shaw’s thigh. He laced his fingers together, watching Shaw’s expression go suddenly opaque. “Did you know him well?” Flynn asked gently. “The man who was killed.”

Shaw went very still, as if something was struggling inside him. Finally, his chest collapsed in a barely audible sigh. “He and I grew up together. Our grandmothers knew each other. When I entered the organization, he followed me in, against his family’s wishes. When we expanded our operation in Kul Tiras I brought him with me.” Shaw sat up and threw his legs over the edge of the bed on the far side, turning his back to Flynn. “He was a good agent. One of my best. If they had wanted to stab me through the heart, there weren’t many more effective ways to do it.” His voice had a slightly hoarse edge to it.

Somebody had known that. The blood elves must have had a contact in SI:7. Or maybe it was common knowledge, though Flynn doubted that. The spymaster was not one to share personal information with anyone.

 _I need to tell Shaw about Blightcaller. But not yet. Not until we are back on safe ground and time has softened the memory of what happened last night_.

“Tide turns in an hour,” Shaw told him. “If we hurry, we should make port in plenty of time.”

“Are you sure? We could ask the Brightwinds staff, they might be able to find us another transport.” Flynn dreaded getting back on board the Dolphin.

Shaw shook his head. “Better the devil you know,” he remarked.

“You’re the boss,” Flynn said lightly.

“Oh…now he figures that out,” Shaw grumbled.

* * *

The Dolphin was still moored when they arrived at the docks. Two thick hawsers tugged at the piers that they were wrapped around.

Flynn couldn’t tell if Mad Dog was pleased or disappointed to see them back. “Sailor found the bilge filled with water last night. We’re pumping it now. Looks like we’ll be in port another day,” he informed them with a slight smirk. “Maybe two. We’ll need to find the leak and repair it and see if she still takes on.”

“Think he’s lying?” Flynn asked, once Mad Dog was out of earshot.

“Wouldn’t surprise me. No point in calling him on it, though. If he wants to delay us, he’ll just come up with something else.”

“Question is, why is he trying to delay our departure?” Flynn rubbed his knuckles with his teeth. “We should try to find another ship.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to make inquiries.” Shaw admitted, his voice as tight as riggings in a storm. "But our options are limited, Fairwind. There are no good choices for us at this point, and all that remains to us is to find the one with...the least ill consequences."

"How do we do that?"

Shaw just shook his head, his expression grim as they made their way back belowdecks.


	9. Endgame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On their way home at last. Flynn and Shaw just need to make it safely to Bridgeport. But that just isn't going to happen, is it? Forces converge on them, all desiring to make the Alliance's secrets their own. And although he'd do anything to protect Shaw, Flynn fears it won't be enough.

There were only two ships taking on passengers for Bridgeport, and both were manned by Irontides Raiders. Shaw flatly refused to consider them. Flynn looked Wendel up and found out that there was the possibility of being taken on by his ship as working crew for the trip, as they were a couple of hands short due to a run-in with a drunken Irontides crew, but the ship wasn’t due to set sail for a week and Shaw refused to consider waiting that long. “We need to get back the Stormwind as soon as possible,” was all he would say, but Flynn knew that he was still sunk into a dark rage over the death of his agent and friend.

He tried to bring it up once or twice, and each time Shaw shut him down. _Done is done_ , he told Flynn. _Mind your own business, Captain_.

It wasn’t like Shaw to shut his eyes to any source of information. Flynn suspected that somewhere in the depths of Shaw’s walled off pain was the realization that, as Flynn kept trying to bring up, there might be more to the story than the two of them had seen. He just wasn’t ready to surrender to that suspicion.

 _Give it time to work its way through,_ he thought _. Shaw will eventually come around_. He knew the man. Knew the full-bodied heart of him, and the quality of his work. By the time they made it back to Boralus, Shaw would be ready to listen.

After two days, during which time Flynn and Shaw could afford to stay at the Brightwinds only one night and spent the other night half awake and tense in the captain’s cabin aboard the Dolphin, Mad Dog pronounced the ship seaworthy.

“Take us out, Mr. Bessel. I’m anxious to be under way,” Flynn told him.

“Aye, captain.” Mad Dog crossed his arms and grinned. There was an ugly slyness to his expression. “Cast off the hawsers!” he shouted.

Creaking and groaning, the ship made her way out of the Freewind harbor. Shaw stayed at Flynn’s side through the process, with his eyes downcast, but Flynn could feel that the man was alert and fairly vibrating with tension. He took in every detail, though to the casual observer it would have looked like he wasn’t paying attention to anything going on around him.

“Something has changed,” Shaw remarked. The hands in his pockets were balled into fists, playing the role of the cowed catamite for any observers. “Mad Dog is working too hard to seem agreeable. I don’t like it. I might have done better to listen to you, Fairwind. We should have waited for the goblins.”

At another time the spymaster’s praise would have swelled Flynn’s chest. Now it just filled him with worry. “Do you think he knows something?”

“Maybe. If he does, he’ll probably shake me down for a ransom. If that happens, it must be paid on neutral ground in Bridgeport. Don’t let him get you and the money back on the ship.”

“I’m not a complete amateur.”

Shaw grunted. “We need to stay together. Even trips to the head. There are more of them than us, but there’s no profit to attacking us; so as long as we don’t make easy targets of ourselves, we shouldn’t need to worry.”

* * *

The second day out of port, Mad Dog found Flynn and Shaw on the prow. “There’s a ship ghosting us.”

“Same ship?” Flynn asked.

“No. Bigger. Might be the same group, though. Saw a tauren and a goblin aboard.”

“Not the Alliance, then. Well, they didn’t do anything last time, so it stands to reason they would have even less motive to attack us now.”

“I don’t like it,” said Mad Dog. “You sure you don’t have any idea who they are or why they’re following us?”

“Not a clue,” answered Flynn, with cheerful honesty.

“How about you?” the first mate asked Shaw.

“How would I know?” Shaw curled his lip sulkily. “I’m just a common sailor.” He and Flynn had scarcely been out of sight of each other since they left port, Shaw acting as Flynn’s silent shadow.

“Not a particularly good one,” Mad Dog remarked. “You should apply yourself. Get out there with the other men and let them show you the ropes.” His smirk left no doubt as to the true meaning of his words.

Shaw looked away, openly cringing and he took a step to put Flynn between himself and Mad Dog. His shoulders were pulled in and his fingers knotted together, fingers digging into his own wrists and face bloodless with dread, the perfect picture of a broken man.

Mad Dog smiled.

“Thank you for bringing the situation to my attention.” Flynn gave Shaw what he hoped Mad Dog mistook for a casual glance and then pretended to be interested in scanning the surrounding sea. They were in a fog again. If there was a ship tailing them, it could easily be within cannon range and still be completely undetectable. “How are they tracking us, do you think?”

“Could be by magic. If so, we’re fucked. But we’ve got nothing valuable on board, so I don’t know why anyone important would be bothering with us.” His eyes speared into Flynn’s. “Do you?” he asked again.

“No idea.” Unless someone had recognized Shaw. Magical disguises aren’t foolproof.

Mad Dog’s eyes narrowed, but he eventually turned and left.

“This is sounding worse and worse,” Shaw muttered. “The worgen might have been taken. If so, the Horde will know that I know what they did. In that case, though, why wait? Why not just attack now?”

Flynn had the same thoughts, but he knew that it wouldn’t be the Horde proper that was after them. He wondered if the ship was under the control of the Sin’Dorei. What had happened with Blightcaller after Flynn left? The Forsaken was arrogant; had he been recaptured by the blood elves? And if so, had he been compelled to tell them that Flynn knew what had really happened in that room two nights ago? What was the ship waiting for?

The Dolphin was old and not particularly fast. They couldn’t outrun any but the slowest pursuers. It might be that the other ship was engaging in a battle of nerves, so that when they finally pulled alongside, the crew would be intimidated enough to hand Flynn over without argument. It was ironic. They couldn’t know that their preparations were unnecessary. There wasn’t an ounce of loyalty on the ship.

All they had was speculation. And all they could do was wait. They had no choice.

* * *

The first sign Flynn and Shaw had of real trouble was when they found themselves trapped between stern and midship, ringed by sailors. Flynn looked around for Mad Dog, and one of the sailors gave an ugly laugh. “’ee ain’t going ter ‘elp yer. ‘ee tol us to keep ye ‘ere.”

Flynn drew his sword and Shaw his daggers. They stood back to back. “Which of you wants to die first?” Shaw demanded.

“Nobody needs to die today.” Mad Dog announced from the entrance to the hold. “We’re just going to do a bit of negotiation. The crew has voted, you see, and I’ve been elected captain. I’m afraid that leaves you without a position, Capthorne. You’ll need to be reassigned.”

“Ass up,” one of the men suggested. “Been waiting for a long time. I got an itch that needs to be scratched.”

“Always wondered if a captain’s arse is finer than a common sea dog’s,” hooted another. “Wadda ya think, Bainy-boy? You’ve been swabbing that deck, ain’t ye?” He threw a mocking look at Shaw.

Flynn felt the blood drain from his face. “If you are looking for a ransom, Captain Bessel, I can guarantee that it will be worth the effort. But not if you let us be abused in this way.”

“Oh, I think a little abuse will be a great motivator. Besides, I had to promise the sailors something in order to get them to vote for me.” Mad Dog smiled. “Being captain, of course, I get served first. You, now…” he grinned at Shaw. “I understand there’ll be quite a ransom for you two as well. The only question is, who is going to be willing to pay more. The Alliance or the Horde?” He chuckled at the rigid expression that came over Shaw’s face. “I did a bit of checking while the two of you were running about. Apparently, something called SI:7 was all over your poker game. That tells me you are both agents and spies for the Alliance. What were you up to in Freehold? The Irontides are going to want to know. And they’ll pay well for that information. That means we get t’ sell ye twice. Plus the bonus of getting to plunder your sweet bounty.”

“We were there to deliver a message. That’s all,” said Flynn. At least Mad Dog didn’t know he had the Alliance’s spymaster in his power. That was a card best not played at all

“Oh, you’re going to have to do better than that. I know how the Alliance’s spy network operates. Nothing that they do is ever straightforward. So my guess is that it’s him,” Mad Dog jerked a thumb in Shaw’s direction, “who’s really in charge. That means you,” he grinned at Flynn, “are going to be the first one strung up.”

Three crossbows were suddenly pointing at Flynn and Shaw.

“Drop the weapons or we’ll put a bolt or two into your legs. You won’t need ‘em for what’s going to happen.”

“Do we fight?” Flynn whispered. He was fairly certain he knew the answer.

Shaw let his daggers fall to the deck. “Are you certain you want to piss off the Alliance, Mad Dog? Getting involved in politics is never a healthy thing for a man who is motivated by profit and not idealism. The two don’t mix well. We both know that the people I work for will pay to get me back me as long as you’re discrete about it. You’ll get paid. But you’ll be on their shit list. And you’ll be on mine.”

“Tie him to the mizzen,” Mad Dog ordered.

Shaw was shoved, face first, against the mizzen mast. Two of the three crossbows were leveled at him as his hands were yanked forward and tied before the mast, then rope was looped around his body and legs, securing him against the rough wood.

“Now tie Capthorne’s hands behind his back,” said Mad Dog, pointing at Flynn. “And put a rope around his neck.”

A noose was looped over Flynn’s neck and drawn tight, then the end of the rope was tossed over the mizzen yard and pulled taut.

Shaw strained against the ropes. “Don’t do anything stupid. You can’t sell a dead man, Mad Dog.” His neck torqued around and his eyes met Flynn’s. There was a desperate message in his eyes.

“Now, let’s start with what you were really doing in Freehold. Who did you meet with, what did you talk about?”

“Don’t be a fool, Bessel,” Shaw hissed. “Selling spies is one thing, filling your head with their secrets is another.”

“Nice thing about selling secrets, you can sell them to a lot of people.”

“That’s more people to hunt you down to make sure those secrets don’t get out.”

“I’ll take my chances. Who did you meet with?”

“You’re out of your depth, Bessel. You’ll end up with nothing.”

Mad Dog gestured, and Flynn was suddenly choking, his legs flailing as he was hoisted into the air.

“Dead men are worth nothing!” Shaw snarled. “Curse you…let him **down**!”

Shaw can’t give up Alliance business, Flynn realized. He’s an agent. He’s the spymaster. Sparks began to dance across his vision. My life is as expendable as his. He has no choice.

“The Alliance will pay fifty thousand to get him back. You can buy your own ship with that much money!” There was an almost hysterical edge to Shaw’s voice that Flynn would have found gratifying if he hadn’t been strangling.

“I already have a ship…” Mad Dog’s words faded away as Flynn’s oxygen starved lungs convulsed and his consciousness dissolved into a shower of sparks.


	10. No Good Deed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped by pirates and facing possible death, you'd think things couldn't get much worse for Flynn and Shaw. You'd be wrong.

Flynn surfaced from the darkness, his throat burning and his head throbbing. There was a loud boom and the ship’s deck shuddered.

Voices were yelling in panic. Flynn turned his head to see Shaw, desperately working at his ropes. “Shaw.” His voice was too raw. It couldn’t carry over all the commotion. He bit his tongue to produce enough saliva to lubricate his damaged throat, then tried again. “Shaw!”

The spymaster’s head snapped around. “Flynn!”

“M’alive.” He didn’t know if Shaw had heard him, but he could see that Flynn was moving. Shaw’s head briefly fell forward against the mast and Flynn could see the slight shudder that went through the man’s body, then his expression turned grim and he went back to working at his bindings.

“Strike the colors!” Mad Dog yelled. “They’ll sink us!”

The flag was hauled down, proclaiming the Dolphin’s surrender. Flynn wondered who they were surrendering to. Some time later, a massive ship pulled alongside, four masts and the sides bristling with cannon. Looked to be a crew of close to four hundred men. If men was the proper word. The crew was mixed male and female; tauren and orcs and trolls and goblins…

All Horde.

Shaw turned his face away from the ship and his efforts took on a desperate urgency.

Flynn struggled into a sitting position. His hands were still tied behind his back. He looked about for their weapons but someone had made off with them. _Damn. Just can’t catch a break._

Grappling hooks suddenly bristled along the Dolphin’s sides and Horde began swarming onto the deck. One sailor attacked a troll and was cut down with almost casual ease. The rest fell on their faces, groveling. Mad Dog scowled, but kept his hands away from his weapons.

The invaders swarmed up and down the decks, some of them whooping and taking trophies. All the sailors were yanked to their feet, one by one, and examined by a huge tauren with a doubled headed axe that Flynn couldn’t even have lifted, let alone wielded in battle.

It wasn’t until the tauren turned Flynn’s face upward and peered into it that his ears flicked twice and he grunted in obvious satisfaction. “This one,” he told the trolls who flanked him. “Bring this one.”

Terror spiked into Flynn’s gut. His disguise was still in effect, so the only reason for them to have a description of Flynn was if Blightcaller had given it up. He glanced at Shaw, whose head had turned and whose gaze met Flynn’s steadily. There was a promise there. _I’ll come for you. If I can_.

It was better this way, Flynn thought as he was dragged toward the Horde warship. They can’t use me as a hostage against Shaw. He hoped fervently that the Horde wouldn’t figure out the identity of the Dolphin’s prisoner.

A rope net was thrown across, spanning the shifting gap between the two ships. A troll dragged Flynn up and nimbly stalked over the ropes, keeping him upright as he staggered across, feet occasionally slipping through the netting. On the deck of the warship he was propelled into the darkness of the hold and down the stairs, coming finally into a spacious lounge. A tall figure turned to face him and Flynn’s knees turned wobbly as he recognized Nathanos Blightcaller. He sagged in the troll’s grip. _Thank the Light_. His relief was so immediate that he felt like vomiting.

The tauren who had brought him over from the Dolphin stepped into the room. “This is the one you wanted, Commander. Do you want me to take him to the brig?” he asked. His deep voice reverberated in the room.

“No. Leave him here with me.” Blightcaller’s burning gaze bored into Flynn. “I owe him gul raktha.”

“You, Commander?” The tauren’s eyes widened. “You owe this human?” His ears flattened, then flipped back up again. He studied Flynn as if trying to see something beyond the shivering, bedraggled appearance that Flynn knew he presented at the moment. Then the tauren struck his shoulder with a massive fist and spoke a few more words in orcish. The troll released Flynn.

More words were exchanged between Blightcaller and the tauren. They were speaking Orcish, which was the official common language of the Horde. He recognized the words “dama sul”, which referred to a meal of some sort, and “swobu”, which meant “as you command”. Flynn staggered to his feet and both tauren and troll took a step back, giving him room.

 _They must think I’m some kind of powerful mage or priest or…something_. They didn’t know that it was just by accident that he had happened upon Blightcaller. For just a moment Flynn felt regret and wondered what it would feel like to have the respect of the Horde. Once upon a time, Nathanos had been human, like Flynn. Does he take it for granted now? His power? And does he feel it was worth losing all that he once cared about?

They said he was a monster. That he had no feelings but hate for the living and devotion to Sylvanus Windrunner. Flynn studied the Forsaken, who was regarding him with an impassive expression.

“Captain Flynn Fairwind, wasn’t it?” Blightcaller dismissed the other two with a wave.

“Yes.” Hopefully the name won't mean anything to him. Although, he already knows I'm with the Alliance. Thank the Light that I never mentioned Shaw.

Blightcaller gazed at Flynn for a long moment. “You're wearing a disguise.”

“I didn't want anyone to know who I was.”

“A wise precaution, in Freehold. And yet,” Blightcaller gave him a mocking smile, “you gave me your real name. That seems careless.”

“I thought it would be an unwise decision to lie to you,” Flynn told him honestly.

“That was…a wise decision. I do not permit deceptions.” Blightcaller made a gesture and Flynn felt something…change.

He lifted a hand to his face, realizing that his hair had regained its normal reddish tint and his beard and mustache were back. He stroked them reflexively, wondering how much the Forsaken knew about him.

Blightcaller rose and went to open a cabinet against one wall. In it were a number of glass bottles, securely tucked into circular cubbies. He selected one, and two glasses, and returned.

“I'm curious,” Flynn remarked. “How did you happen to be here? It seems an odd coincidence.”

“It was nothing of the sort.” Blightcaller seated himself, filling a glass and pushing it toward Flynn. He then poured one for himself. “Something that you said caught my interest.” He took a sip from his glass and Flynn did the same.

It burned. Velan's balls. Flynn’s eyes watered. “Did it?” he gasped.

Blightcaller smiled, sipping his drink. If his undead flesh felt a burn, he gave no sign of it. “You said you wanted a ride to Bridgeport. But then you told me that you had a ship. The Drunken Dolphin. You even offered me transport on it.” He leaned back in his chair. “The statements seemed at odds. So, I did some investigation and turned up a number of interesting gossipy details about one Captain Lucius Capthorne, a name which matched your physical description.”

“Gossipy details?”

“Drunken sailors have such loose tongues. Ply them with enough alcohol and they'll tell you the entire sad tale of their pathetic lives,” Blightcaller said mockingly. “Or anyone else’s. Including your first mate. He bragged about his plans for you and since the route you were taking was along my way I decided to watch and see what happened. It was quite entertaining.”

“I'm glad I could amuse.”

( _You're always the most entertaining thing in the room, Flynn_ )

“Are you?”

“Presumably that's why I'm still alive.”

Blightcaller nodded. The glowing red gold of his eyes was eerie in the darkened cabin. “When it became evident that they intended to hang you, I decided it was time to remove you from the ship. Most of the Horde takes gul raktha quite seriously. A life for a life. Had I chosen not to pursue your ship…” he shrugged. “My lady would call it…sentiment. She doesn’t approve of such obligations.”

But you do, Flynn thought. Pity twisted in his heart for the undead human who had once been an honorable man. There must be a part of him at war with himself, with no hope of ever reconciling or declaring a truce.

The door opened. Flynn twisted around in his chair to see a troll’s head thrust into the room. “Commander?”

“Take the human to guest quarters. A room has been prepared?”

“Yes, Commander.”

Blightcaller watched impassively as Flynn was escorted out.

* * *

Flynn was taken to a room that was about half the size of captain’s quarters on the Dolphin. It was a generous accommodation by ship standards, where space was at a premium. There was one porthole; through it, Flynn could see the Dolphin following in the Horde ship’s wake. Horde sailors manned it. Mad Dog would have been pissed at having the ship that he had stolen taken from him.

Flynn wondered where they were keeping the Dolphin’s sailors. He hoped the Horde guards were keeping an eye on them. He’d heard that the orcs considered rape a completely dishonorable act, even against captives, but would they care if it were humans raping other humans?

 _Did I make the right decision this time, Shaw_? Flynn threw himself down onto the bed and gave himself over to his fears. If he had brought Shaw to the attention of the Horde, Blightcaller probably would have noticed his disguise and he’d have been revealed as the Alliance’s spymaster. Flynn was quite certain Shaw would have chosen to take his chances with Mad Dog rather than with Blightcaller.

But that’s because he doesn’t know the truth about Blightcaller’s actions in Freehold.

Still, the temptation of all the secrets in the spymaster’s head might have proved too great to resist, even if it incurred the wrath of the Alliance. Especially since all they had to do to hide their acts was make sure Flynn never made it back to Boralus. And Blightcaller had already warned Flynn, in his oblique way, that the strength of his devotion to the Horde tradition of gul raktha would take second place to his obligations to Sylvanus.

Flynn had no doubt about what Sylvanus would do if she got her hands on her enemies’ head of security. _I’ve got to find a way to get Shaw out of there_. In such a way that Blightcaller doesn’t get curious about his identity.

There was a knock on the door. A troll with a tray of food. He entered the room, and Flynn could see that his door was guarded by a tauren and a goblin. He didn’t think the tauren was the same as the one he’d seen earlier. He was shorter and had a blunt hammer-like weapon slung over his shoulder. The goblin was female, large lipped, tattooed and pierced almost everywhere, and topped with a spray of purple hair.

The troll set the food down on the room’s tiny table.

“Is Commander Blightcaller taking us to Bridgeport?” Flynn asked.

The troll shrugged. “Don’t know. Meetin’ with a ship.”

“Horde ship?” Flynn inquired, trying to pretend that he was just making conversation.

The troll wasn’t fooled. “Not gonna tell ya,” he said. “Ya can ask the Commander, mebbe he’ll tell. Don’ tink so, doa.”

If it was a Horde ship, it might contain Sylvanus Windrunner and that would be bad. Maybe not too bad, though. After all, Flynn was small potatoes. He doubted she’d care much about his fate, and certainly not enough to risk angering the Horde by ignoring an obligation of honor. Blightcaller had done him a favor by announcing the obligation that he owed to Flynn publicly.

He’s trying to do the honorable thing. Again, Flynn felt a stab of pity for the man, though Blightcaller would not have thanked him for the sentiment. A little like Shaw, in that. They both had obligations which, at times, forced them to commit acts that they wouldn’t otherwise have chosen to do.

* * *

After breakfast the next morning, Flynn was escorted out onto the main deck of the ship. Nathanos Blightcaller was engaged in conversation with the large tauren that Flynn remembered from before, and an orc with massive arms and several skulls hanging from his belt. The tauren took in Flynn’s evident well washed and well fed state and seemed satisfied at it. The orc noticed Flynn and scowled. There was a long, growled conversation in orcish, during which Flynn heard the words “gul raktha” mentioned at least twice.

Finally, the orc grunted and turned to Flynn. He spoke slowly and precisely, forming the words with care. “We have contacted a ship based out of Boralus. They were moored at Bridgeport, and have agreed to meet us in neutral waters a day out of Bridgeport. You will be transferred to the ship. Will this satisfy gul raktha?”

“Is it an Alliance ship?” asked Flynn. “Or Kul Tiras?”

The orc shrugged. “It’s a human ship. Don’t know what kind. Their captain has promised to take you to Boralus.”

Please let it be an Alliance vessel, Flynn prayed. Kul Tirans had no love for Shaw, for all that they tolerated him in the city to keep peace with the Alliance. “What about the sailors aboard the Dolphin? Will they be transferred as well? You probably would like to get rid of them.”

“Not a problem.” The orc grinned nastily. “They all went over the side as soon as we took their ship.”

There was a roaring in Flynn’s brain. His lungs couldn’t draw in enough air. _Shaw. No_. “What do you mean?”

“We tossed them over the side. No sense keeping them. Nobody important. Just pirates.”

Flynn’s legs collapsed from under him.


	11. Prison Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flynn finds himself on a Horde ship. Surrounded by enemies. Shaw is gone.
> 
> But then new information comes to light, and he realizes that hope is not lost after all.

_No. He can’t be dead_.

_Why didn’t I say something? I should have told them to bring him aboard._

Shaw wouldn’t have thanked him for that.

_But he’d still be alive._

“Was one of them important to you?” Blightcaller inquired. “If so, you should have mentioned it.”

“I didn’t think you’d kill them,” Flynn gasped.

“Sentimental,” Blightcaller remarked. “A weakness of the living.”

Flynn slumped on his knees, numbly, hands trailing over the smooth wood of the deck. _Bad choices. Should have told them. Shaw. No_. He saw, in his mind’s eye, Shaw, lungs desperate for air. Sinking into the icy depths. Lost to him.

“They aren’t all dead,” the orc grunted. “There was that other one, the one you told me to fetch,” he reminded Blightcaller. “The one tied to the mast.”

“Ah,” said Blightcaller. “So I did.” His smile was frosted with smugness. “He looked to be something out of the ordinary. Is he the one you wanted?” he asked Flynn.

For a moment, Flynn could only shudder as the relief of it washed over him. _Shaw. Not dead_. He looked up at the Forsaken. _He knows. He has to know who Shaw is_. “Yes.”

“Then it is fortunate that I thought to preserve him,” Blightcaller remarked. His fiery gaze bored into Flynn.

“The Alliance will want him back.” Flynn willed his limbs not to tremble, his voice to remain calm. “If you want to maintain friendly relations with them, sending him back with me would certainly accomplish that.”

“We don’t need the Alliance’s goodwill,” the orc growled. “What is he? A spy?”

“A spy,” Blightcaller agreed. “The War Leader will decide what to do with him.”

They would question him. Shaw would resist. Eventually…every man had his breaking point. It was said that Sylvanus knew an infinite number of ways to break a man’s will. And if she was determined to have his secrets, she could always kill and turn him.

Anduin would bargain to get him back. If it had been his father who was still king, Varian Wrynn would have threatened war. He’d have used Shaw’s capture as an excuse for a fight. But Anduin wouldn’t throw Shaw away. He’d try to get him back.

Sylvanus would know that, and she’d use it. What Anduin might get back was a shell of a man, emptied of his secrets. Anduin would forgive, but Shaw never would forgive himself. “Can I see him?”

“Why?” the orc demanded.

“He’s a friend. A very good friend,” Flynn told him. He cast his mind back, trying to remember what he had once known of the language. “Jung-ga chu.” He wasn’t certain, but he thought the term was an orcish one, indicating something more than comrades in battle. Blood-brother.

The orc grunted, and Flynn thought his expression softened. “Commander?”

“I have no objections. Divest him of his weaponry.”

They found the small, concealed boot knife that was all Flynn had left. The orc escorted him down a flight of stairs, then another.

Shaw was in a small cell, wrists manacled closely and chained to the bars by his neck. More bruises. No surprise there, Flynn thought. He hadn’t gone into captivity easily. His disguise had been stripped away, hair and beard returned to their normal red, eyes now a brilliant emerald. It was almost a shock seeing the man’s real features after so long. Flynn couldn’t help standing a moment, drinking in the sight of him.

Slowly, Shaw lifted his head. He stared at Flynn, no flicker of recognition showing in his eyes. Completely under control.

“Your jung-ga chu has been permitted to bid you farewell,” the orc told him.

Shaw’s gaze flickered between Flynn and the orc. His hands sketched out a quick question in the secret language that SI:7 used to communicate when they were being overheard. Flynn wasn’t fluent, but Shaw had taught him some of the simpler signs. _What is going on_?

“Blightcaller owes me gul raktha. He’s putting me on an Alliance ship,” Flynn told him. _Truth_.

“How did that happen?”

Flynn’s voice dropped. He wasn’t sure how much of the story the orc knew, wasn’t sure if Blightcaller would be pissed if Flynn talked about what had happened. He didn’t know anything, damn it. “Blightcaller was being controlled. By the blood elf. I followed them when they left. She had him trapped in a circle that was draining his will, making a zombie out of him. I freed him.”

Shaw’s eyes squeezed shut and the muscles of his jaw clenched so hard Flynn’s ached in sympathy.

 _Sorry, mate._ Flynn sagged, watching the man struggle to accept this new information. _Wish I could’ve broken it to you easy_.

“So that’s where you went? When you left?” Shaw turned his face to the floor in a gesture that was becoming familiar to Flynn and tried to put away his churning emotions. He didn’t appear to be having much luck.

“Yeah. That’s where I went.”

“I should have listened.” Shaw yanked at the chains angrily. “You tried to tell me. Missed opportunity,” he remarked bitterly. He hunched against the bars, his face a frozen stone mask. “He won’t have that excuse this time. Whatever happens to me the Alliance will lay at his door.” _Report_.

“I’m trying to get you out. He will try to get you out.” _King_.

“Don’t blame yourself. If our situations were reversed, I’d take whatever opportunity presented itself to get home.” _The mission_.

“That’s your job,” Flynn reminded him. “Not mine. We already talked about this.” _You_.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Shaw hissed. “Go home.”

“Not without you.”

“They don’t have any reason to let me go, Capthorne.” _Do they know my identity_?

“You can call me Flynn. Blightcaller knows who I am.” _Probably_.

“Then I’m fucked,” Shaw said bleakly. _Weapon?_

“Only if you’re really lucky, mate.” _No._

“Go away, Fairwind.” _Get me one_.

“I’ll do better than that. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Flynn crouched in front of Shaw. His hands crept out, wrapping around the back of other man’s neck. “Have faith in more than my intentions, okay?”

“I do.” Shaw’s eyes closed. _Break it_ , his fingers begged. _Please_.

It wasn’t a skill that Flynn possessed. He’d seen Shaw do it more than once, break a man’s neck with his bare hands. Shaw would have done it for him in a heartbeat. But Shaw’s solutions were…Shaw’s, not Flynn’s. _Can’t. Sorry_.

After a time, Shaw pulled out of Flynn’s grasp.

“I’ll try to come back,” Flynn promised. _Don’t give up._

“Don’t bother. No point.” _Weapon._

The orc led Flynn back to his room in silence.

* * *

Two days passed. Flynn was well fed and treated respectfully by the crew. Surprisingly, Blightcaller seemed well thought of, and some of that rubbed off onto Flynn. And possibly Shaw as well. No new bruises or wounds had appeared on him the times Flynn was allowed to visit. For the most part, Shaw ignored him, which Flynn considered a bit petty, but he suspected it was Shaw’s way of trying to make the situation easier. It was how Shaw deal with problems. Putting up walls. Putting feelings away. As if such silences could truly be empty.

Flynn responded with a flurry of reminisces and what he hoped were entertaining anecdotes. Stories of his childhood in Boralus, and his encounters with the colorful characters which inhabited her streets. Tales of adventures with the crew of the Middenwake. He even had stories out of Stormwind, though he was careful not to mention any names which might be recognized.

“Do you ever shut up, Fairwind?” Shaw asked once, though his tone was more weary than irritated.

“Of course. Don’t you remember the time you accidentally knocked me into the harbor, and I fell through the ice and I caught such a cold that I couldn’t talk for days?”

“How could I forget?” muttered Shaw. “It was like Winter Veil and Pilgrim’s Bounty all wrapped together.”

Flynn thought he saw the orc’s mouth twitch. He suspected his taciturn green guard shared Shaw’s opinion of Flynn’s verbosity. _What else can I do for him, though, but try and distract_? He was always searched, quite thoroughly, before each visit. They had caught him with concealed weapons twice, and rather than being angry about it the orc seemed to take it in stride, as if it were an expected and honorable thing, to attempt to smuggle weapons to one’s jung-ga chu.

Flynn wondered if the orc was ever tempted to let him succeed. It might well have cost him his life, though. Blightcaller did not seem the sort who tolerated failure.

Such a strange melding of different ethical systems, the Horde. Very different from the Alliance, where everyone was expected to hold the same values dear and ethics were more corporate than personal.

“This will be our last meeting, Fairwind. The ship will be here tomorrow.”

Flynn didn’t ask how Shaw had discovered that piece of information. Even chained and isolated, the spymaster’s ability to ferret out what was happening was nothing short of extraordinary.

“When I get back to Boralus I’ll put together a ransom offer. We’ll get you back.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’d never have admitted it if not faced with these prospects, Fairwind, but it has been good serving with you.”

“I’m going to remind you of this when we see each other again,” Flynn told him.

Shaw gave a gentle snort. “I’ll see you in the Light, Fairwind.” He settled back against the bars, chains on his wrists clicking. His eyes held no hope in them.

As he was being led upstairs, Flynn wondered if the spymaster took any comfort at all from his own words. Anduin had faith. He believed with all the strength of his stalwart heart. The Light protects us, he often told Shaw.

Flynn didn't think Shaw was the type to have faith in anything other than himself. And it was less faith than sheer strength of will.

He doesn’t believe in me. He barely believes in himself.

 _I can’t fail him this time. I just can’t_.


	12. Gul Raktha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shaw is a prisoner of the Horde, facing a future far worse than death. Flynn is about to be separated from him. He's looking desperately for a way to save the spymaster and bring him back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go after this. Things are about to start looking up for our boys.

The wind had died down to a whisper when they brought Flynn up to the main deck the next morning. The sails were luffing and the sky was a brilliant shade of blue, studded with tiny puffs of clouds that hung motionless against the azure background like wool snagged on barbed wire.

Gulls swooped overhead, uttering their piping cries. Flynn looked up at them and smiled. Sometime in the middle of the night he'd woken up with the answer he'd so desperately been seeking.

He knew how to save Shaw.

The solution had been staring him in the face for days. So simple.

It would be just one more item on the list of things Shaw would never forgive him for, but this was one he would not have to forgive himself for, and that felt good. Like sunshine on his face after weeks of darkness.

“The ship is here.” The orc drew him toward the railing, and Flynn's heart skipped a beat as he saw what was anchored off the warship’s port bow.

 _Middenwake_.

“Get in the dinghy. We’ll lower you over the side.”

“No.” _They'll be waiting for me. Jandri and Olbin and all the rest of them. My crew. My friends_. The pain of it was like a thin blade sliding between his ribs. He might never see them again.

“No?” The orc gave him a puzzled look. Blightcaller, who had followed them, folded his arms and watched Flynn with a slight smile twisting his lips.

Flynn addressed the Forsaken. “A life for a life. Isn’t that what it means? Gul raktha?”

“That is my understanding,” Blightcaller confirmed.

“Does it have to be my life? Can I redeem the debt with someone else’s life?”

Blightcaller’s glance referred the question to the orc, who grunted. “Who?”

“My jung-ga chu.”

“Will he accept this exchange?”

“No. But, if he did, he wouldn’t be a man worthy of such a sacrifice, would he?” Flynn declared.

“Well said, human.” The orc pounded on Flynn’s back in approval. “You have an understanding of honor.”

“One of my shipmates was an orc. Rogana, of the Burning Clan. She used to swear by the Eye of Kilrogg, and talk about her life in the clan when she got really drunk.” _About how she dishonored herself by falling in love with a human_. All she had lived for was to die with honor. Sweete had thrown her life away to buy himself some time during an ambush. “She died with a sword buried in her gut, still fighting to the end. She died with honor.”

The orc tapped his shoulder, saluting a fallen comrade. His head nodded with approval.

The _Middenwake_ dropped a second anchor. Flynn could see Jandri on board, leaning against the rail, scanning the warship with her spyglass. Behind her was Halbane Goldtooth, their dwarven sharpshooter and Fleabite, the cook.

They would blame Shaw for Flynn’s absence. Flynn wished he could talk to them, just for a moment. _Don’t make it worse for him_. But he doubted Blightcaller’s humanity would surface to the extent that he’d give Flynn that time.

A clank of chains caught Flynn’s attention. Shaw was being dragged out of the hold, fighting every step. The tauren seemed more amused than irritated. He had Shaw’s wrists in his grip, held over his head.

Shaw caught sight of the ship anchored off their starboard and his eyes widened in disbelief. He looked at Flynn.

“Put him in the dinghy,” said the orc.

The tauren gave him a puzzled look, then glanced at Blightcaller.

“Captain Fairwind has decided to discharge his gul maktha with his jung-ga chu’s life. Send him to the Alliance vessel.”

“Son of a bitch! No! Fairwind. I am not letting you do this!” Shaw kicked out wildly and managed to land a telling blow to the tauren’s midsection. The larger creature grunted and forced Shaw to the ground, where his manacles were removed and his legs and arms were bound securely against his body, and a blindfold fastened over his eyes. Then he was lifted up and dropped, not ungently, into the bottom of the dinghy, which was dangling over the edge of the deck.

“Spirited, for a human,” the tauren remarked. “Who’s going to row?”

“Captain Fairwind,” Blightcaller said with an ironic ghost of a smile. “Oh, and there will be one more passenger.”

A figure was dragged out of the hold, obviously female. She was bound and gagged and unconscious, dark hair cascading down over her face, the long pointed ears poking up through it.

“She’s the only one I left alive. I’ve extracted every bit of interesting information from her regarding her faction’s plans. In the interests of forging goodwill, I thought I’d pass her along.” The woman was tossed into the little ship on top of Shaw, who was struggling to turn over.

Flynn faced Blightcaller firmly. “What do you want of me? Shall I row the dinghy back after I’ve delivered them?”

“Would you?”

“Without hesitation. If that’s what you wish.” The warship could blow the _Middenwake_ out of the water without taking any significant damage.

Blightcaller murmured “You won’t be of any use to me unless you make it back to Boralus, Captain Fairwind. You are the only one who can bear witness to the truth of the events back in Freehold.” He raised his voice. “When the Horde decides to make war on the Alliance, we will make war. But we will not be tricked into it. Get in the boat and go, human. I have wasted too much time on you already.”

Flynn wasted no time scrambling into the dinghy. As he was being lowered over the edge, he saw the orc’s fist slam into his shoulder in a salute. Blightcaller’s arms were folded over his chest and he looked…satisfied.

They hit the water. Shaw kicked out in desperate frustration. Flynn reached down to remove his blindfold. “Shaw…take it easy…we’re going to be okay. We’re going home.”

“You’re not going back to that ship, Fairwind. Damn you. Don’t do this,” Shaw pleaded. “Better dead than that.”

“And take my entire ship down with me? Not happening. But it doesn’t matter. Blightcaller doesn’t want me back. It’s over, Shaw. They’re letting both of us go.”

Shaw went limp as Flynn began to row. “Do you really believe that, Fairwind?”

“Yes.”

As soon as the dinghy was clear, the warship’s anchor was raised and orders were being shouted. The ship’s sails filled and she slid away, tossing the dinghy like flotsam in her wake.

Ropes were lowered over the edge of the Middenwake’s deck and the unconscious blood elf was hauled up. Flynn clambered up and borrowed Jandri’s dagger; he dropped back down and cut Shaw’s ropes. “Are you all right?” he asked Shaw.

“Fine.” Shaw’s expression was raw. His gaze followed the warship, as if he expected the gun ports to swing up at any moment.

“Come on up,” Flynn ordered gently. “We’re almost there.”

The entire crew crowded around to greet him. Jandri kissed him squarely on the mouth. Halbane pounded him on the back. Olbin poked him in the ribs. Fleabite promised fluffy biscuits for supper.

“What the hell, Flynn!?” Jandri demanded. “We sure as hell didn’t expect you to be delivered by a Horde warship. Did you see the fucking gun ports on that monster?! And who was the prize they were dragging behind? What a piece of junk…”

“Long story,” said Flynn. “Long and strange. Can I tell it later? I just need…” He glanced over at Shaw, who had withdrawn to the railing, his fingers clenching the smooth wood as if he was afraid something would tear him loose, watching the Horde ship sail away.

“What’s the story with the spymaster?” Halbane growled. “Didn’t look like he wanted to get off that Horde ship. And now he's mooning after it. What the hell’s going on? Did he try to jump sides…?”

“Later!” Flynn snapped. Then he raked his hand though his hair. “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s been a rough time for both of us. By the way, the elf’s a powerful mage. Give her to Olbin. Tell him to make sure she stays unconscious. If you’ll excuse me.”

He joined Shaw, pressing against the man, feeling the tension in his rigid muscles. “Are they out of cannon range?” he asked.

“Almost,” said Shaw. “But they could always turn around.” His tone was more exhausted than afraid.

“They won’t.” Flynn wrapped his arm around Shaw’s waist and pulled the man against him. “Come below, Mathias,” he coaxed.

Shaw’s fingers slipped off the rail, hanging limply at his sides. “You’re the captain here. You going to take advantage of me, Fairwind?” His head tilted back, and Flynn could see a faintly lost expression pass over the man’s face.

“Yeah. I guess so. Maybe I shouldn’t. But I’m going to.”

Shaw blinked and nodded. “Okay.” He took a long, shuddering breath and when he turned to Flynn there was no resistance in his gaze. “Your ship, Flynn. Lead the way. I…” He took a step and half stumbled.

Flynn’s arm tightened around Shaw’s waist. His hand fisted the man’s shirt. “Almost there, Shaw,” he murmured. “Almost home. You only have to make it a little farther.”

They made their way slowly down two flights of stairs, turned the corner and found themselves at a door. Flynn opened it and pulled them inside.

Flynn’s cabin had never looked more inviting. Comfortable. Familiar. Safe. He shut the door and shot the bolt. Not that any of his crew would have entered without an invitation, but he knew it would reassure Shaw.

“Nothing’s going to happen. I just want you to lie down and get comfortable.” He watched as Shaw crossed the floor, stared down at the bed and finally sat.

“Go ahead and make yourself at home. I’ll bring you dinner…Fleabite is a marvelous cook. He used to be the head cook at the Barrel and Crate until an unfortunate incident led him to seek work elsewhere. We’ll set course for Boralus, should be there in three days. Ahead of schedule, hmm? Feel free to wander, if you are so inclined. You know where the head is. If you’re hungry now, Fleabite will be glad to feed you.” Flynn broke off. His battery of cheerful reassurances seemed to be having the opposite effect.

Shaw sat, hunched, on the edge of the bed. His eyes were fixed intently on the floor.

Flynn approached, and crouched down at arm's length. "Talk to me, Shaw."

"I'm not safe to be around right now, Fairwind. There are too many things trying to...break loose."

"This is the best place for that, Shaw. And the best time. Let me help you through it."

"Not a good idea." Shaw's breathing was deep and even. Controlled.

"Not my first time for this sort of thing. I've mentioned my old co-captain before, right? Harlan Sweete?"

"A time or two," Shaw said tightly.

"He really knew how to fuck people up. Being around him...it was like living on a keg of open powder and having fire randomly shoot out of your ass every couple of days. I've had shipmates who...like I said, he really could fuck people up."

"I've been through this before, too. I do it better alone."

"Have you ever tried it any other way, Shaw? I know you. You come back from a mission after something has gone wrong and you disappear for a while. When you come back, everything is back in place. It's like nothing ever happened."

"Not quite."

"I know that, Shaw. But you put on a good show. You always do what you have to, no matter the cost to yourself. Do you have any idea how much it rips me up inside, watching you do that?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Shaw's pale skin flushed. "When did you decide you had the right to be responsible for me?"

"People do that, Shaw, whether you want them to or not." Flynn eased himself down on the bed beside Shaw, moving carefully. "Do you know how much I trust you? Not just your intentions, but everything. I know I can always rely on you to know what to do, and to do it." _We all do. And you feel it, don’t you, Shaw? The weight of that_.

"You shouldn't," Shaw snapped. "Your welfare isn't my priority."

"That's okay. I don't expect it. I'm glad I don't have to bear that burden. Lay it down for just a little while, Shaw," Flynn said gently. "Let me touch you. Let me inside you. Let me show you how to safely let those walls down." _Believe in me, Shaw_ …

"I can't do that. Don’t you understand, Fairwind? I can't afford to."

"You mean you're afraid you won't be able to build them back up afterwards," Flynn murmured. "Don't worry about that. It will be easier than you think. Trust me, Shaw?"

Small tremors had begun to work themselves up and down the rigid muscles of Shaw's arms. "You're biting off more than you can chew, Fairwind."

"I'm more cautious than you think. Small bites, Shaw. Can I lay my hands on you?"

Shaw's mouth tightened, but he gave a tense nod.

Flynn's hands eased down over the spymaster's shoulders. The tension in them was like a line straining against the mainsail during a storm. His fingers began making slow circles, digging in gently. The rough fabric of Shaw's shirt tugged against his skin. He drew his thumbs down the long muscles on either side of Shaw's spine, taking his time, exploring the contours of the man's back.

When he could feel Shaw beginning to relax, he asked, in a tone that expected only one answer "Can I take the shirt off?"

Silently, Shaw nodded.

The livid scars were still a shock. _When we get back to Boralus I'll talk to Elric Whalgrene, the alchemist. He must have something that will get rid of these_. Flynn's fingers traced along the edges of the souvenirs of what had been his worst mistake during the course of their most recent mission. "Are these tender?"

"Not any more. Skin pulls a little."

"I'm going to get some oil." Flynn got up off the bed and went to unlock his desk. It was an ornate writing table with five drawers, made from wood grown in the Crystalsong forest in Northrend. He had picked it up at an auction in Stormwind while the _Middenwake_ was moored there on one of his earlier missions for Anduin. He unlocked the top drawer and selected two bottles, one containing red oil made from Firebloom harvested from the Burning Gorge. It had a natural warming property.

Shaw was still in the same position that Flynn had left him in. His shoulders hung loosely and his head had fallen forward. _Good. He's giving me control_.

Flynn coated his fingers with oil. The purplish mixture burned slightly; Flynn could feel the heat of it sinking through his skin. He knew from experience that being coated in it made a man feel as if he was in a hot bath. Not an oil to be used intimately, but good for loosening tense muscles.

He rubbed it into the skin of Shaw's back, reapplying twice before the man's back was coated. He heard a soft sigh, and saw that Shaw's eyelids were being dragged down.

"On the bed, Shaw. Face down. I want to get my fingers into some of the knots on your back." Flynn kept his voice even and calm. He guided Shaw onto the bed, pulling the man's arms down to his side, and began working the pads of Shaw's hands.

Hands. Arms. Back. Neck. Flynn kept expecting Shaw's eyes to close but if they did it was only for a moment at a time. Shaw watched him, obliquely, eyes flickering with Flynn’s every move. Blinking occasionally.

Flynn finished the upper body massage and was left, absently rubbing his thumb across Shaw's neck when the man gave a long sigh and remarked "Get my boots?"

Smothering a smile, Flynn unlaced Shaw's boots and removed them. "I suppose these could use a rub while I'm down here. Certainly, they could use a bath."

Shaw gave a small snort. "Don't feel obliged. Even I shudder to think what must be growing between my toes by now."

"Firebloom oil should be able to cook all the little bastards out." Flynn lifted Shaw's foot and bent it back over his thigh, drizzled a bit of oil across the pads and began to delve into the crevasses between his toes.

Shaw gave a moan of pleasure and shivered. "Damn it, Fairwind. There's something just not quite right about how good that feels."

"I've just gotten started. You have no idea how good it can get."

"You leave me breathless with anticipation."

"Breathless but not speechless."

"Want me to shut up?"

"Hell, no. I want to hear what this is doing to you, Shaw. I want to know that it's good for you."

"Fuck. Fairwind.” Shaw struggled with something that he was obviously reluctant to articulate. “It's better than good,” he admitted, finally. “I don't think anyone's ever..." He fell silent.

 _No one has ever done this for you? You've probably never let them, Mattie, boy_. Flynn worked his way patiently up Shaw's ankles to his calves. His thighs. “I'm not going to do anything you're not comfortable with, Shaw.”

“I'm fine, Fairwind.”

“Then let’s get rid of the trousers.”

Once Shaw was completely naked, Flynn could see the man's muscles tensing up. He wiped off the Firebloom and swapped it for an ordinary, clear oil, applied it to his hands and spread it across the muscular curve of Shaw's ass, working it in with firm, rhythmic strokes. He avoided anything too intimate until he could see Shaw starting to relax again.

“Going slow,” he murmured, dribbling oil into the crevice of the spymaster’s buttocks and using his thumb to work it gently in.

Shaw's breath hitched. Flynn slid his fingers slowly and deliberately down the fold, delving carefully between Shaw's testicles, pressing in to massage the sweet spot until Shaw’s buttocks began to clench and then he slid them back up again. His thumb rimmed Shaw with deliberate circles, teasing him until he could see Shaw beginning to squirm beneath him. “Is this what you like, Shaw? Is this what you want?”

There was a slight pause. “Maybe.” Shaw's voice was carefully non-committal.

Too soon. And maybe not at all. Not all men were comfortable with the intimacy of being penetrated. “Turn over.”

Shaw shifted to his back, quickly enough that Flynn knew he made the right choice. Shaw’s erection bobbed, pre-cum leaking slightly from its tip. He watched Flynn with a wariness partly masked by his arousal.

“I'm going to touch you, Shaw. Okay?”

“Don’t patronize me.” Shaw's voice betrayed a slight irritation.

“I’m not. I’ve just made too many mistakes with you, and I’d rather not make any more if I can help it.” Flynn oiled his hands again. “Permission to touch?” He tried to give a slightly lascivious tone to the question. It was hard to maintain a balance, dealing with Shaw right now. Enough humor that the man didn’t think he was being patronized, but enough care to avoid the tender spots. He couldn’t be sure how deeply the assault had scarred the man.

Shaw snorted. “Touch anything you like.”

The spymaster’s body was spread out for him like a long-anticipated banquet, and Flynn wouldn’t have been human if he hadn’t had fantasies about seeing him like that. His eyes feasted on Shaw’s hairy, muscular chest, the wiry arms and slender thighs, the mat of reddish groin hair, the eager jut of Shaw’s cock. He warmed Shaw up, working his thigh muscles and moving gradually into the groin area.

The unguarded look of anticipation on Shaw’s face was delicious.

Then Flynn fisted the base of Shaw’s cock.

Shaw’s back arched and his fingers dug into the mattress.

This was the reaction that Flynn had been waiting for. He climbed over Shaw’s leg, seating himself between the man’s tensed thighs. Then he leaned down and took the end of Shaw’s cock into his mouth. He drew his tongue along the underside of Shaw’s shaft, then applied suction.

Shaw’s heels dug into the bed, lifting his hips. There was a dazed look in his eyes. “F…fuck,” he groaned. “Fairwind. You…you don’t have to…”

Flynn pulled his mouth free. Teasingly, he blew across Shaw’s cock. “Of course I don’t have to. Whatever gave you the idea that I thought I had to do anything, Mattie? You know me, always ready to try something new…”

Shaw groaned. “Dammit, Flynn, then shut up and put your mouth back where it belongs. Please.”

Flynn chuckled, then began to work Shaw with long, hard upward strokes of his hand. Shaw shifted beneath him, then moaned as Flynn’s mouth went back to work. It didn’t take long before Shaw was gasping “Fairwind..!” and Flynn pulled away just as Shaw came with a strangled cry. His body went rigid, his arms clutching at Flynn, then he collapsed limply, sprawled across the mattress.

Flynn used a corner of a blanket to clean him off. “I imagine that will give you quite an appetite for dinner,” he remarked lightly.

Shaw watched him, half-lidded, until he had regained his composure. “C’mere.” He sat up and reached for Flynn, undoing his belt and pushing down his trousers. He pressed Flynn down onto his back. His hands closed around Flynn’s engorged cock. _Those are Shaw’s hands. On me_. Sparks shot through Flynn’s vision and he didn’t last long as Shaw efficiently fisted Flynn into an orgasm so intense he couldn’t breathe.

They lay, side by side, spent and tangled together. Shaw turned on his side and trapped Flynn’s right leg beneath his. “Wake me…dinner… His arm draped itself possessively over Flynn’s groin, nestling in the crook of his hip.

Exhausted, sated and content, they both slept.


	13. Heading Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Safe aboard the Middenwake, Flynn savors the time he has left with Shaw, knowing that it will eventually come to an end. And then they arrive in Boralus. Life returns to normal.

Dinner was always the best part of the day on the _Middenwake_ when they were at sea. They had a galley equipped with an enchanted stove, bought dearly at auction, so the meals aboard were at least as good as one could expect from a cheap on-shore pub. Luxury, by ship-board standards, but Flynn thought of the _Middenwake_ as more of a floating home than a vehicle of transportation. One of the advantages of spending so much time in port.

Weather permitting, they all gathered midship, tin plates piled high with Fleabite’s excellent faire and mugs filled from barrels of ale imported from Stranglethorn. Flynn had gotten a taste for the honey-sweet beverage and he kept the galley well stocked with it. As they ate, Halbane and Dwerin played their matched set of octopus-bags, dwarvish instruments that could sound absolutely dreadful if played badly, but when played well they were quite rousing. By tradition, everyone sang along for the first song or two, then the dwarves put their octopi away and tucked into their meal.

Shaw retreated to a spot far from the crew but Flynn was having none of it. He brought his plate and wedged himself against Shaw, hip to hip, staking his claim.

Jandri folded her arms and watched them with a stern eye. Oblivious to personal nuance, Fleabite parked himself on Flynn’s left. Malbane and Dwerin, who were both from Loch Modan, planted themselves near their captain’s feet and promptly fell into an argument about whether it was better to hunt crocolisk with a crossbow or a spear.

Flynn felt a little guilty. He usually spent his meals arguing with Jandri, and despite the fact that he hadn’t seen her in some time, he’d barely been able to exchange two words with her. He wondered if she resented the fact that Shaw had been the focus of his attention since he’d been back. But she didn’t seem angry, just watchful. _I’ll talk to her later_. He could fill her in on some of the things that had happened while he was gone. Maybe take her out on the town when they got back.

It was good to be surrounded by old friends. Flynn leaned back comfortably against the side of the ship and glanced at Shaw, who was quietly eating. He looked, if not quite at ease, then at least not uncomfortable. “So…what’s the first thing you’re going to do when we get back to Boralus?”

“I imagine I’ll spend the first few hours trying to locate my desk under all the paperwork that will have accumulated in my absence.”

“Seriously, Shaw? That’s the best you can come up with?”

“We don’t all live the carefree and irresponsible life of the unattached free agent. I suppose the first thing you’ll do when you get home is visit all the bars in town?”

Flynn gave a long, contented sigh. “I’m already home, Shaw.” Then he snorted. “But yes, there will be a number of bars that will have remarked upon my absence and I need to see that they are properly reassured. You should join me. It would do you a world of good. Get ripping hammered and let the inner Shaw out.”

“I have better things to do with my time than waste it getting drunk.”

“Paperwork?” Flynn shook his head. The man was hopeless.

A quiet, sad piping rose, winding its way up on the gentle wind. Timiny, the bucketboy and youngest member of their crew with his Kul Tiran tri-pipes. Jandri smiled at him and settled down to listen, sipping her ale and watching the sails. They all ate and Fleabite refilled their mugs and they watched the sun set in shades of burning orange and pale lavender. The waves slapped against the hull and the ship rolled and listed gently.

Eventually Dwerin rose to take his shift at the wheel, and Evrue Hicks sat down next to Jandri to eat, her long blonde hair tossed by the wind. The two of them talked quietly, their bodies touching, an unspoken contentment between them that Flynn had always envied.

It was a thing a man, or woman, of the sea seldom had. Lovers had to be left ashore, sometimes for months at a time. Most sailors didn’t see much shore leave. I’m a lucky bastard, Flynn thought. Island running didn’t require him to be at sea for more than short hauls; seldom was his berth left empty for more than a couple nights at a stretch.

He glanced at Shaw, who was watching Flynn’s crew from behind his ale. What was going on in the spymaster’s mind? It was often impossible to tell. _What is it that makes your life worth living, Shaw? Who or what do you come home to?_

The light eventually faded and the stars came out. Plates and mugs were handed off to Haldane, who had mess duty that evening. One of the jibs fouled and Flynn sprang up to help Jandri and Halbane straighten the sails and riggings.

When he returned, Shaw was waiting and the two of them headed back to the forecastle and bed.

* * *

The morning sun was slanting in through the portholes when there was a knock on Flynn’s door. He hesitated for a moment, then realized how ridiculous it would be to try and hide the fact that Shaw was sharing his bed. “Come!” he called out.

Timiny poked his head in. “Just approaching Tradewinds Harbor, Captain.” His eyes flitted about the room, anywhere but on Flynn’s bed.

“Very good.” Flynn told him, and the door hastily shut.

Shaw turned over and pushed the covers back with a yawn. His morning erection bobbed in the cool air and a slight flush darkened his pale skin.

"Let me help you with that," Flynn suggested.

Shaw hesitated. "What does something like that mean, Fairwind? I need to know what's going on in your head."

"It means you have a hard-on and I badly want to get my hands on it. That's all. I enjoy sucking men off, Shaw. Hope that doesn't bother you."

"Under the circumstances, how could I complain?"

"You'd be surprised." Not all men were able to embrace their physical passions as easily as Flynn. They got drunk and let themselves be led off to bed, then blamed Flynn in the morning, sometimes violently. He'd learned to be wary of casual encounters, especially in the Tradewinds district. The Alliance was far less accepting of same gender encounters than the Kul Tirans.

"You're hardly going to shock me, Fairwind. I've done things you probably never even heard of under conditions that would turn your stomach."

"But did you enjoy them? My guess is no. So they don't count."

Shaw fell silent.

"It's not a competition, Shaw. I know I can't match you in some areas, but give me this one."

"I don't want to...see you hurt, Fairwind."

"Look...Shaw...in a few minutes or a few hours you're going to walk out of here. You'll probably be back at some point; we both know I'm a resource you intend to make use of in the future. Maybe when you come back, you'll prefer to act as if none of this ever happened. If that’s how it turns out, I'll be disappointed, I won't lie about that. But I'll try not to let it sour our working relationship. All I ask is that you don't ask me to pretend it never happened. You know how I feel. Let it be what it is. I know you don't feel the same..."

"I don't know what I feel," Shaw said impatiently. "Don't assume **you** do."

 _Oh_. "Okay. Fair enough." _He needs time to sort things out. It's more than I'd expected_. "So, are you going to let me get my hands on you this morning or not?"

"You just want to turn me into a boneless puddle of quivering jellyfish and keep me in your bed longer. By the way, 'a few hours' is a gross overestimation of my stamina."

"I was including the post-coital breakfast in my estimate."

"Ah. Well. Carry on, then. Will there be more of those biscuits?"

"I'll see what I can do..."

* * *

Breakfast was pleasant. Shaw didn’t seem inclined to rush though it. Flynn hoped that was a good sign. Then they dressed and headed out. Flynn followed him to the dock’s edge.

“I’ll send someone immediately for the elf,” Shaw told him, his expression restored to its customary professional neutrality. It seemed oddly out of place, coupled with the simple vest and trousers that Shaw wore. Even without his armor and weapons, though, Shaw still managed to seem in command of the situation.

“Good. Olbin ran out of lotus potions and has had to resort to an ether soaked rag. The fumes are getting rather thick down there,” Jandri complained.

“Your help with this matter has been greatly appreciated, Captain Fairwind. I will see that you are compensated for any supplies that you have expended. Send the requisition to my office…”

“Yes, Shaw, I know the drill…”

“Good. Well done. Not always smooth sailing, but it turned out better than it might have,” Shaw told him briskly, then turned and headed off.

Flynn watched as he strode up the staircases which led to the upper level of Tradewinds.

“Well. That’s that, I guess.” Jandri’s hand was on his shoulder. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or was this another of Shaw’s if-I-tell-you-I’ll-have-to-kill-you missions?”

“No. Not that he mentioned, anyway.” So much had happened, and there was so little that wasn’t highly personal. “How about if I take you to Atkey’s for a couple of aurora borealis and breadsticks, and I’ll give you the entertaining highlights.”

“As long as you’re paying, Cap’n,” she winked.

“Always, First Mate. It’s a captain’s duty.”

* * *

They had a splendid evening. Flynn didn’t have to leave many of the details out. The delivery of the note was glossed over. Jandri had a good laugh over the antics of the goblins in the bar, and of Wendel’s observations on cross-species drinking habits. She was properly sobered by his description of the SI:7 agent being tortured. Of Shaw’s reaction, all he said was that the spymaster had gotten very grim. She laughed herself breathless as he described his dive off the tree limb after having consumed enough alcohol that he was considering switching to a less potent ale. Then came the description of his encounter with Blightcaller, and later, of the mutiny and in-the-nick-of-time arrival of the Horde ship.

“Tied to a mast,” she repeated, obviously turning that image over in her mind. “The spymaster. Hard to imagine. Wish I’d been there.”

“No,” said Flynn. “You really don’t.” He laid his head down on the table. How many was that? Four auroras? Maybe five? His vision was beginning to blur. “I think it’s time we got back to the ship.”

“Going to have to get yourself home, Captain,” Jandri told him. “Evrue’s expecting me.” The daughter of the Relentless’ navigator and granddaughter of a Kul Tiran lord, Evrue had her own place to go at night, a snug little apartment over the docks. Jandri usually joined her there.

“Right. Well, have a pleasant evening, then.”

It was a long, sobering walk back to the _Middenwake_. And his bed had never seemed so empty.


	14. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life has returned to normal for Flynn and Shaw. They've gone their separate ways, Flynn running heroes to the islands and Shaw back to his duties in Stormwind. Then elements arise to bring them back into each others' orbit.

Three days, with no communication from Shaw. Other than the arrival of a note of credit from the Kul Tiran Bank.

Generous, but not embarrassingly so. Business as usual. It made Flynn feel a little better.

He made several trips to the islands. Routine. Not enough to keep him from pacing the deck like the idiot that Jandri accused him of being. Finally, exasperated, she put him to work splicing the backstays and had Fleabite bring out a pail of potatoes for him to peel. Which was hardly acceptable; **Flynn** was the captain and ought to be giving the orders. He said as much to Jandri and ended up being sent to the crow's next for a couple of hours while Timiny, their barrelman and youngest sailor, puked his guts out over the side of the ship.

Bad fish.

"I told him never to eat the fish at That's A Moray before five," she shouted up to Flynn. "He went there for lunch."

Flynn winced in sympathy. The head cook at Moray was part owner of the place, and he didn't believe in wasting food. No matter how old it was. If properly smoked, it wasn't a problem. But everyone knew that the reason fish was discounted at 75% during the day was because you took your chances. Poor lad. He'd know better next time.

Deprived of the deck to pace across, Flynn found himself settling into the calmness that the Nest provided on a balmy day. It reminded him of his days as a youngster. The sun beat down warmly on his head, and the wind ruffled across his shirt. The sea was calm but for the occasional whitecap.

It wasn’t as if weeks, even months, hadn’t gone by in the past without any contact with Shaw. He had probably been portaled to Stormwind. The business with the Horde and the blood elves would need to be communicated to King Anduin, and there were always repercussions. Repercussions that might need to be dealt with by the Alliance’s spymaster and his agents. The blood elf prisoner, who had been taken away by a trio of agents fifteen minutes after Shaw left the ship, was probably being questioned.

Eventually, something would come up that required Flynn’s ship, or Flynn’s skillset. Usually he functioned as transportation, sometimes as a neutral party for negotiations between independent Kul Tiran elements and the Alliance.

His absence didn’t necessarily mean Shaw was avoiding him.

It didn’t mean he wasn’t, either.

* * *

More days passed. Still no word from Shaw. Flynn told himself that it was no less than he had expected. The events which had transpired aboard the Dolphin were, no doubt, extremely embarrassing to Shaw. Most of the witnesses to his humiliation were now dining with Davy Jones, but he couldn't know if Flynn would keep his secret.

He couldn't blame the spymaster for wanting to distance himself from even the memory of what had happened. And from the person who had been responsible for it.

While returning from the islands, two hours out of port, the storm which had slapped and growled at them the entire voyage suddenly turned into a monster. They were running before the wind with the lower sails being reefed as fast as the crew could work and the makeshift drogue slowing them when the wind suddenly shifted and came at them broadside. Jandri and three others were on the masts, and were nearly dislodged as the ship listed badly, so badly that for one heart-stopping second Flynn knew she was capsizing and then the wind was back on course, blowing over the stern and the _Middenwake_ righted herself with a crash that shook Timiny loose. He landed, stunned, on the deck and when he’d gotten his breath back, he’d immediately climbed back up, the brave little monkey…

After that, it was just a matter of trimming the storm sails and adjusting the jibs to the wind, and pumping the bilges as fast as they could while riding out the storm.

They limped into Boralus almost a day later, the _Middenwake_ a tattered looking, bedraggled disgrace. From Cyrus, the harbormaster, Flynn learned that his hadn't been the only ship caught in the storm. Half a dozen ships had been damaged, and the Flying Squirrel, a ship of similar tonnage and class, had gone down with all hands lost.

Half an hour later, a note was hand-delivered by one of the street runners who could be hired to run errands for a couple gold coins.

“Will board sometime after eight bells. Be on board. Don't be too drunk. S.”

Flynn immediately went out and downed a glass of rum. It seemed the appropriate thing to do. _Over a week without a word and now he's expecting me to bend my evening about his whims._ It was characteristic of the man, and yet it wasn’t. Shaw didn't usually write ahead. He didn't like to be predictable or put himself in situations where his whereabouts could be predetermined.

 _Be on board. Don't be too drunk_. That sounded serious. Was Flynn in for an official reprimand for his part in what had ended up being a botched mission? Or had it been botched? He wasn’t even sure what the mission had been. There was a message, but that was just an excuse to get them to Freehold. As far as Flynn could tell, the mission had been an impossibility before it even happened. They could hardly blame him for that.

Maybe Shaw had made his report to the king, who had decided that Flynn should be charged with treason. He had, after all, struck the Alliance’s spymaster. And helped Blightcaller escape his magical prison, after the man had tortured one of the king’s loyal agents to death. And from all outward appearances, Flynn had been consorting with the Horde when they’d taken him aboard their ship. He’d been neither imprisoned nor chained.

Or maybe Shaw had simply decided that Flynn was too much of a liability, and he was coming aboard to terminate their relationship.

“You're obsessing over this, aren't you?” Jandri poked Flynn in the ribs. She had been the one to receive the note, so of course she had read it.

“No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”

“I know you, Flynn. You're muttering to yourself and pacing and it's Shaw so I know you're bound to act like an idiot.”

“What a wretchedly disrespectful thing to say to your captain.”

“You didn't hire me for my spit and polish.”

“True,” Flynn admitted ruefully. “I hired you because you're an excellent sailor.”

“You hired me because I'm an excellent first mate,” Jandri corrected. “And part of my job is to tell my captain when he's about to step off the plank three sheets to the wind. Or when he’s letting himself be blown off course. Or when he’s fretting about nothing.”

“I'm not,” Flynn protested. She was right about why he had hired her. Her former captain had been accused of murder and sentenced to hang. Jandri had insisted he was innocent and set out to prove it. And succeeded. Too late. Flynn had found her a week later, dead drunk and vomiting behind a bar. He'd coaxed her story out and hired her on the spot.

“Whatever happened while you were gone, Shaw isn’t going to jettison a perfectly useful resource.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. He needs you, Flynn. You place yourself at his beck and call. Hell, if nothing else it must stroke the man’s ego. You know I'm right,” she interrupted his objections ruthlessly. “You need to get the man out of your system or he'll keep doing this to you. And mark my words, Flynn, he knows exactly what he's doing.” Her face flushed with anger.

Flynn gave her arm a pat. Her fierceness warmed his heart. “Don't worry about me, Jandri. I know what he's doing.”

Jandri snorted. “Which translates to ‘I know there's a fisherman on the other end of the line but I'm taking the bait anyway.’”

“I suppose...that's an accurate enough description,” Flynn admitted. “Besides, the money is good.”

“The man does know how to bait his line,” Jandri grumbled.

“I'll be in my cabin. Send him down when he gets here.”

“Maybe.” Jandri stalked off.

* * *

Eleven bells, and what a fine waste of an evening it had been. Flynn listened as the faint echo of the last clang faded away.

There was a half-full bottle of rum on his desk. He hadn't actually drunk the bottle half down, he’d just meant it to look as if he had, so that when Shaw arrived, it would be made clear to the man that Flynn couldn't be ordered about like one of his agents.

Only, Shaw hadn't arrived.

For the last two hours Flynn had alternated between being furious at Shaw for missing their appointment and not even bothering to send a note round, and being terrified that the man was dying in an alley somewhere.

Or tossed over the railing of a ship. That was a scenario that appeared in Flynn's nightmares all too often these days.

Flynn heard the sound of his door knob being rattled. Then the door swung open.

Shaw stood in the doorway, framed by the opening. He was dressed in black. Black trousers, black silk shirt. Knives hung from his belt and edged out from his boots. In the soft glow from the magelight lanterns fastened into the walls he looked every inch the assassin.

Breathtaking.

Flynn scowled. The bastard hadn't even given him time to toss down the glass of rum he'd been saving, just to put the finishing touch on his counterfeit act of defiance. “You're late, Shaw. We're closed for the night. Come back tomorrow. I'm not in the mood to hear anything you've got to say.”

“I'm never late,” Shaw announced. “And you're always in the mood.”

For a moment, Flynn was rendered speechless. “You...complete asshole. Get out, Shaw. If you think...”

The overwhelming smell of hard spirits had seeped into the room. Flynn suddenly realized that Shaw wasn't holding onto the door frame for dramatic effect, it was because he was having trouble with his balance. He rose and crossed the floor to pull Shaw inside and shut the door behind him. "You're drunk."

"Gloriously so, yes. I believe that is the piratical term?" Shaw steadied himself against Flynn.

"You had to get drunk in order to come here tonight?" Flynn tried not to let it bother him. _Shaw isn't like that. He won't sober up in the morning and blame me for what happened_.

"I didn't have to. I wanted to. All part of the experience. Why are you complaining, Fairwind? You told me I ought to. You’re just never satisfied…"

Flynn had never seen Shaw drunk before. Pretending to drink, pretending to be drunk, pretending to be pretending not to be drunk... A niggle of concern pressed at the corner of his mind. "So, the Alliance's spymaster got gloriously drunk and set off across the city, without escort, seeking out a sexual encounter on a boat not under his command or control?"

"Hardly across town, Fairwind. Atkey’s is just a short stroll away."

"I suppose that wasn't so bad, then. But you've been drinking alone?"

Shaw looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, there were a couple of agents in the bar at the same time. And they probably followed me to the ship. But they're gone now. I'm almost certain of it."

Flynn burst out laughing. "Tides, I love you, Shaw. You just can't stop being you, can you?" He pulled the other man against him, then stiffened, realizing what he had just said.

Shaw's hands caressed his face. "Don't worry, Flynn. I know what you meant." He pulled their lips together, opening his mouth to Flynn. One of his hands dropped to Flynn's buttocks, cupping him through the thin trousers and squeezing.

They explored each others' mouths; tongues, teeth, lips. Shaw trailed slow kisses over Flynn's eyes, and his fingers traced the curve of Flynn's ear. "I have a lot to be grateful to you for, Flynn. I hope you know that I know that."

"I made some mistakes..."

"Mmm, and also some very good decisions. You'd probably make a tolerable agent."

"I'm shit at following orders, Shaw."

"Yes. That's why you'd be only tolerable."

"I think I'd better just stick with what I'm good at."

"Another very good decision..."

"As long as I'm making decisions, I've decided that it's time you shed those clothes."

It took a while for Flynn to get the spymaster undressed. He had to help Shaw with some of the buttons, and he stopped to kiss each expanse of skin as it was uncovered.

"Excellent valet service," Shaw murmured. "Is that included with the room, or does it come out of my deposit?" He staggered slightly, and Flynn pushed him down onto the bed. Shaw obligingly spread himself out on the mattress and watched as Flynn undressed.

"Valet service and entertainment provided at no charge," Flynn told him. He felt a thrill go through him at the hungry look in Shaw's eyes.

"Marvelous. I shall have to patronize this establishment more often."

"You do know you don't have to get drunk in order to do it?"

"We have plenty of time to explore all the variations. Sober and not. Standing up and lying down. On land and on sea. "

A heated rush of anticipation poured through Flynn's body. _This isn't just a one-time fling. He plans on coming back. More than once_. He fetched a clear bottle of unscented oil and coated his hands. "Drunk or not, I'm going to make you come so hard you'll forget your own name, Shaw."

"I'd like the experience to be a bit more mutual this time, Fairwind."

"We can do whatever you like. But you're going to have to tell me what you want."

"Last time...you offered me something that I wasn't ready to accept yet. But now I think...I'm ready for more, Fairwind."

"If you're not sure then you're not ready, Shaw.”

"I'm sure," Shaw said quietly. "I don't want those bastards to keep any part of me. Help me take it back, Fairwind."

"Tell me what you want." Flynn laid his hand across Shaw's thigh, tracing the juncture between leg and abdomen. "You have to be clear."

Shaw's breath quickened. "I want you inside me."

"All right, then." Flynn climbed up and nudged himself between Shaw's thighs, then draped Shaw's legs over his shoulders.

Shaw shivered and his cock purpled, standing at attention over the thick mat of Shaw's red-gold pubic hair. "Slow," he said. “I’m not…I haven’t…”

"Trust me, Shaw. I'm not going to push you too fast." Flynn spread the oil on his hands and began to gently work it over Shaw's buttocks. He kneaded the muscles, stroking in a broad circular motion, taking in Shaw's hips and pubic area. "I'm going to make it good for you, Shaw. Nice and slow. We'll take it in stages. You decide when we move on. I'm going to make you talk to me."

"Not...here for the conversation, Fairwind."

"I know. You just want my fingers, don't you? You feel them. Touching you. All the places you like to touch yourself." Flynn fingered Shaw's sacs, gently tugging, feeling Shaw's thighs shift, opening further. He bent down and took one of them in his mouth, tasting the sweat and salt, feeling the soft skin roll beneath his tongue.

"S'good, Fairwind. Ah." Shaw shuddered and bucked. "More. More now."

"What do you want?" Flynn's tongue delved into Shaw's slick crack, between his balls and then down toward his hole.

"F...fingers. Inside me. I want to feel your fingers."

Flynn cupped Shaw's buttocks and lifted the man up slightly, wedging him ass-up beneath Flynn's knees. "Here it comes, Shaw. I'm going to open you up." His index finger finger breached the tight ring of muscle, drawing a grunt from Shaw.

"You okay?" He slid the finger in, slowly, then out.

"Feels...different. Not what I expected."

Flynn slicked up with more oil. He worked his finger in and out until he felt Shaw loosen. "I'm going to add another finger now..." Two fingers, index and middle finger stretched Shaw wider.

"F...are you sure there are only two of them? Feels like...more..." Shaw gasped.

Flynn chuckled. "You'll adjust. Just relax, Shaw. Let me take care of you. I can feel how hard you're gripping my fingers. No more til you've loosened up. That's good." He angled his fingers, pressed upward and probed.

Shaw gave a strangled cry. "What the fuck..? What did you just do to me, Fairwind?"

"Never had anyone hit your sweet spot like that before, hmm?" Flynn's fingers sought their target again, and had Shaw's back arching and his legs quivering against Flynn's back. "I think you've loosened up quite nicely...are you ready for a little more?"

"I'm ready for...whatever you've got, Fairwind." Shaw's voice was beautifully breathless, quivering with anticipation.

Flynn greased himself up and pressed himself against Shaw's hole. He was so hard he knew it wouldn't take much to push him over the edge. The muscle parted with little resistance and Flynn slid the head of his slick, aching cock into Shaw's body. He grunted at the delicious tightness of the man.

Shaw stiffened. The hardness of his erection sagged.

"Shaw?" Flynn froze.

There was a rigid cast to Shaw's features, as if he was seeing something that wasn't there. _He needs to be reminded of where he is, and who is touching him_. "Shaw, focus on me. Feel my hands?" He caressed the spymaster's legs, running his hand down Shaw's thigh to his hip, turning his head to kiss the inside of Shaw's knee. "It's Flynn Fairwind touching you. You're safe here on my ship. Among friends."

"Not...my friends." Shaw shuddered, but his eyes gradually lost their hunted look. "I'm pretty sure your first mate would love to shove me overboard with an anchor tied around my leg."

"You'll grow on her." Flynn held himself still, with an effort. There was nothing he wanted more than to bury himself fully in Shaw's tight heat, but he needed to keep Shaw's attention on himself, not risk triggering traumatic memories. "You grew on me **.** And I certainly wanted to toss you overboard the first day I met you."

"I seem to recall that you did."

Flynn could feel the muscles of Shaw's inner passage squeezing him, deliberately. "Gods, Shaw..." he gasped. The pressure nearly drove him out of his mind. "That...that was our second meeting. No...third." His thought processes scattered as a wave of arousal breached his senses. "Dammit, Shaw, don't do that if you don't mean it."

"I'm good to go, Fairwind. Don't hold back on my account." Shaw's voice had become deep and teasing.

Flynn's hands closed around Shaw's buttocks and he pushed in.

A small cry escaped Shaw's lips. His heels pressed against Flynn's back. "Good. Deeper. Harder."

Flynn buried himself to the hilt, then pulled out and shoved in again. "Shaw. Gods. You feel so good." He settled into a rhythm of long, slow strokes.

Shaw's eyes were fastened on Flynn, his breath coming in small gasps. "Touch me. Now."

The desperate urgency in the spymaster's voice pushed him over the edge. Flynn's head came apart, sparks grinding across his vision and when they finally cleared, he was left, sprawled across Shaw's body, the rock-hard length of Shaw's erection pressing against his stomach. "Sorry."

Shaw's fingers carded through his hair. "You have such an honest face, Flynn. And you make such entertaining noises. You don't hold anything back." He smiled tightly, his eyes hot and urgent. "But your timing could use some work."

Flynn propped himself up with a grin that he suspected looked even more drunken than Shaw's had. "Who needs timing when you have technique?" His hand closed around the other man's cock and his lips enveloped him. He swallowed Shaw down until he was hitting the back of his throat, scraping along his soft palate, dangerously close to triggering his own gag reflex. _It's been a while since I did this_.

Shaw made a noise suspiciously like a whimper and then came, his fingers digging tightly into Flynn's arms. Flynn swallowed down the salty taste of Shaw's cum, teasing him gently with his tongue as Shaw's muscles relaxed.

Then Shaw pulled him down, chest to chest, holding Flynn tightly clenched against him as if he was afraid that Flynn would disappear.

Flynn waited, knowing the spymaster would get around to telling him what was going on in his own time.

Finally, Shaw took a long, deep breath and let it out. “I thought it was the Middenwake.”

“Hmm?”

“When the storm had died down enough to be safe and Dori-thur indicated that it had passed, Genn and I went out to look for ships in distress. We found one, reduced to a floating graveyard, wreckage everywhere. It looked like the Middenwake. We found parts of bodies. The sharks had been at them. One of them was a dwarf. I didn’t recognize him, but I…there wasn’t much left to identify. We got back and your berth was empty. I left someone stationed there with orders to bring back word immediately when…”

… _if_ … Flynn heard the word clearly in Shaw’s tone.

“Took you long enough to get back,” Shaw complained, his voice tight. “I sent the note round, then I got invaded by Lord Menehil and Emma Warren and had to referee a shouting match and by the time I had gotten rid of them it was later than I’d hoped to leave the ship by and I figured you must have gotten tired of waiting. So I went by Atkey’s to see if you were there, and I thought I might have a drink, just one, and then I decided to take your advice. I suppose I wasn’t thinking quite as clearly as I should have been.”

Flynn squirmed down into the crook of Shaw’s arm. “I’m surprised Jandri even let you on the ship.”

“I thought she was going to pull a knife on me,” Shaw admitted. “That would have been unpleasant for everyone. She asked me what the fuck I was doing here.”

The scene was easy to imagine. Flynn was glad it hadn’t escalated to violence; Shaw wouldn’t have hurt Jandri, but if there were agents trailing him with orders to protect him… “What did you tell her?”

There was a long pause. “I told her I was there to fuck her captain. Thoroughly and repeatedly.”

That was…unexpected. Flynn couldn’t even guess what Jandri’s reaction would have been to Shaw’s announcement. “What did she do?”

“She said ‘about damned time’ and stepped aside to let me pass.”

A laugh of pure happiness burst out. Trust Jandri to look out for his best interests, even if she didn’t approve of them. “I’m glad that worked out.” He brushed his lips over Shaw’s nipple and took it delicately between his teeth.

“None of that. I’m going to have a bastard of a head tomorrow, and I’d rather face it after a decent night’s sleep.”

"We are good together, aren't we?" Flynn asked him sleepily.

"Very good." Shaw's lips curved into a contented smile. "You're much better at taking orders in bed than you are in the field."

"Fuck you, Shaw," Flynn grumbled.

"Definitely." Shaw pulled Flynn against him and gave a long sigh. "But not right now. You've worn me out. Insatiable brat."

"Go to sleep, old man." Shaw had no idea how old the spymaster was, but he doubted the man had a decade on him. Still, there were some things that aged a man beyond his years. _I'll be here for you, Shaw. To celebrate the good days and chase away the bad ones. Whenever you need me, or want me_. "Shaw, do you think..."

Shaw was asleep, the faint puff of his breath a comforting sensation against Flynn's chest.

For the first time in weeks, Flynn had no need of fantasy to get through the night. What could be better than this reality? He closed his eyes and joined his lover in sleep.


End file.
